The Cycle of Violence
by Jet44
Summary: Charlie accidentally views one of Don's sealed files - and learns a horrible secret about Don's past that he's hidden from his family. Don finds redemption and hope in breaking his own cycle of violence while stopping a killer. Don/Robin, Charlie/Amita.
1. Chapter 1

_**The Cycle of Violence**_

While working on an unrelated case, Charlie accidentally views the contents of one of Don's sealed FBI files - and learns a horrible secret about Don's past that he's kept hidden even from his family. Don didn't quit fugitive recovery: the FBI transferred him to Quantico to recover after he was kidnapped by an escaped serial killer.

When I first began posting this fic, it was with some serious and continuing doubts about the content of the story, and the portrayal of that content. I had a plot and premise I loved, but I wasn't sure how to tell the story. Thanks to all of your comments, I was able to figure it out. This is not something I could have done on my own, so if you find yourself enjoying the fic, pat yourself on the back! THANK YOU.

The first chapters have undergone some re-writing. Specifically, chapter 4 has one scene added, chapter 5 has been vastly re-written and split into two chapters (5 and 6), and chapter 6, while unchanged, has become chapter 7. Chapter 8 is currently being written.

The present-day portions of the fic are laid out in a linear fashion, but the story of Don's kidnapping and its aftermath are not. That part of the story will unfold as Don works through the current case. Don't worry, we will end up finding out how Rogerson snagged him in the first place.

**Outline/warnings/random disclosures:**

_Language:_ Yes, the characters talk. ;) Sometimes, they even swear.

_Violence:_ I should establish up front that this is not a "torture-porn" fic. It's written with affection and caring for the characters and for the spirit of the show Numb3rs. I love me some angst, drama, and hurt/comfort dynamics and there will be liberal doses of that within. As fair warning, this story contains adult language and somewhat graphic references to torture, rape, and the death penalty. Much like Numb3rs itself, I've no intention of flinching away from those subjects, but I don't intend to wallow in the actual crimes over much. It's the reactions and relationships that I'm interested in.

_Angst and emotional hurt/comfort:_ Everywhere the eye can see. If I didn't make you tear up at least once, or at least get a little mushy inside, I didn't do a very good job.

_Sexual content:_Story assumes healthy Numb3rs canon relationships in the form of Don/Robin and Charlie/Amita. No graphic/adult content or pairings with titles like Billy/zoo monkey/Alan.

_Ownership:_ I own a Kia subcompact running on three whole cylinders. I do not, unfortunately, own Numb3rs or anything remotely connected to it. (Wait. I own the DVDs, does that count?)

**Chapter 1**

**FBI OFFICE, CONFIDENTIAL COMMUNICATIONS**

Charlie didn't even notice the name on the sealed report until he'd skimmed several paragraphs in search of the key data points. It was all one blur of death and cruelty and emotionless reporting of facts, and he struggled to surpress a sense of irritation. Irritation with the judge for making him use his security clearance to do freshman data entry, irritation with himself for this - what was it? Burnout? The uncomfortable realization that no mathematician, and no FBI agent could stop this stream of reports from being reality?

His eyes stopped scanning the document and blurred so badly he had to struggle to focus on the name. Eppes.

Special Agent Donald Eppes.

He gulped, and within seconds realized that the nausea in his stomach wasn't going to be ignored for long. He closed the file, locked out his computer terminal, restarted the machine, and raced for the bathroom.

He was still gagging and retching on the floor when David entered. Charlie realized his eyes were filled with tears, and he hoped it was from the nausea and not his emotions, because he couldn't feel any of them. "Charlie? Hey, Charlie." David knelt down beside him and put a soothing hand on his back, rubbing gently.

"Rough file, or bad lunch?"

Charlie wished he could answer, something humorous about the lunch, but his voice wasn't working. David wrapped his arms around him and pulled him into a firm hug, and Charlie collapsed against the agent, unable to fake bravado. The tears were real now, an unstoppable sense of wrenching grief for the Don Eppes he didn't know and hadn't been there for.

**FBI OFFICE, WAR ROOM, FOUR DAYS EARLIER**

"Our guy is an oddity among serial killers in that he doesn't favor a certain victim demographic." David motioned at the thirteen photos on the large screen. "Male, female, black, white, Asian, American, foreign, long hair, short hair - it doesn't seem to matter to him at all. They're all under forty, and that's about it for physical constants."

"And he just had to come pay us a visit here in LA." Don paced across the room war room, frustrated.

"Well -" started Charlie, uncertain. "Why is it worse that he's here instead of Portland?"

Don sighed, coming to a halt in front of the screen as it displayed the grim record of a serial killer's path through what once were living human beings. "I don't need you to tell me that statistically, we don't get these people on the first go. I don't want this guy killing people in my city, you know?"

Charlie sat, unsure how to respond. Instead, he started sketching out notes to himself; lines of inquiry, statistical approaches, potential ways to approach the complex mathematical problem that was tracking and identifying a serial killer. It was territory he'd covered before, himself and a multitude of others, and he caught himself longing for a truly new problem.

David approached Don and sat on a table near his path. "I found out something interesting when the Portland office was briefing me earlier."

Don stopped pacing and focused on David, raising his eyebrows in silent question. "As head of the LA Violent Crimes squad, you've closed more serial cases than any single agent in FBI history."

A smile entered Don's eyes, a thank-you that might not have reached his face but was none the less sincere. "We," he corrected. "This _team_has closed more serial cases than any in FBI history." He eyed Charlie, who was already scribbling in furious concentration while monitoring the goings-on in the room. "Keep going."

"Well, preliminary profile on this guy shows he's highly consistent despite his seemingly random choice of victims," said David. "All of his victims have one thing in common, they're survivors of sexual or physical abuse, and all of them have been involved in jury trials which resulted in their abuser going to prison. They were beaten and raped while they were held captive, but he doesn't follow the typical pattern of escalating to strangulation or any other hands-on sado-sexual murder. He seems to go to great lengths to make the killing humane and painless. All of our victims had heavy doses of sedatives, painkillers, and muscle relaxants in their bloodstream, and they were executed with a single gunshot to the base of the brain stem with no signs of struggle or distress. Medical examiner's consensus is that the victims were either completely calm or unconscious when they were killed."

Don frowned at the pictures, all of the dead faces reflecting an expression of relaxation, even peace. "So he essentially tortures them for two weeks, and then euthanizes them? Usually your humane killers have some sort of savior complex going on, but that doesn't mesh with sexual assault."

"Still, that's a special kind of cruel," commented Nikki. "Picking people who've already been through that once in their lives, and making them relive it?"

"Dunno," said Colby with a frown. "What if sadism's not the motivation here, what if he thinks he _is_ saving them somehow?"

"How about a revenge motive?" asked Liz. "Punishing people for standing up to their abusers?"

Don nodded. "We should check that angle. Maybe he's an abuser, goes to jail for killing his wife, gets out, starts looking to recreate her murder?"

"Charlie, three of these victims including the two discovered in the LA area were identified as part of this case by a CATCH search. I know you've worked on that system, let me know if you can come up with any way to refine the results. Colby, you and David work on putting together a profile on this guy. Nikki, write out the victim profile, get with LAPD and LA County missing persons, let them know I don't want any 24 hour reporting delay. If someone else gets snatched, we want to know now. Liz, you meet up with the press and beg them not to release details, I don't want copycats in this."

Everyone nodded in acknowledgement of Don's orders, and Charlie held up his hand. "I'd like to approach this as a predictive data mining exercise. If we develop a set of data points linking all of our known victims, we can add in past cases with similarities and potential future targets. We can take advantage of existing machine learning frameworks used to anticipate terrorist strikes and with enough data, we should be able to start forecasting future victims. We should start to see a pattern emerge that can lead us to future victims before he targets them."

"Okay," agreed Don.

"Do we know for certain when he started killing?" asked Charlie.

David shook his head and pointed at the board. "Sheldon Trudeau was our first known victim in Atlanta five years ago, but who knows how many people he's killed and when without local authorities attributing it to him or submitting the data to CATCH."

"Okay," said Charlie, studying the case notes. "I'd like to review and map all homicide cases with certain specific data points in common, going back at least ten or fifteen years. I know that's asking a lot and it'll take a lot of manpower, but I think it's important."

Don and David exchanged glances. "You got it," said Don finally. "Tell me how many people you need, I'll put together a tech team."

**DON'S DESK, FBI OFFICE, THREE DAYS EARLIER**

Charlie tapped lightly on Don's desk. "Thanks for the huge team. It's making inputting all this data a lot faster."

"Sure hope it works," said Don. A few years ago Charlie would have mistaken the harshness of his words for something it wasn't, but he didn't misinterpret the strain in his brother's voice.

"I think it will," said Charlie gently. "Maybe not in time, but it will." Don nodded. "Hey - some of these past case files I'm running into, they're sealed. They fit into our search pattern, and I think it's important to include them."

"What, you think our killer -"

"The cases aren't important because we think that he committed these murders, but because of significant correlations in some of the data points like MO, or victim selection. We're trying to seek patterns based not only on his behaviour, but on the behaviour of others like him. It will allow us to more accurately map his actions in the past and forecast who he'll choose to target next."

"It'll take a court order," said Don. Charlie didn't bat an eyelid, and Don nodded. "Okay. I'll have Robin call you for a list of the cases you need access to, and she'll work on convincing a judge."

**EPPES RESIDENCE, TWO DAYS EARLIER**

Don was sitting on the couch with a beer, to all appearances relaxing until Charlie realized he was sitting alone with the TV off. "Case bothering you?" asked Charlie.

"Nah, not really." He took a swig of beer. "If there's a top ten list of signs you've been in the job too long, getting a serial case and having your first reaction be 'oh, come on, not another one' should really be on it."

Charlie sat. "Maybe I shouldn't feel guilty then. Because - I have to admit, my reaction was that this was a pretty boring problem, and I feel terrible about that. Or maybe even worse, I don't feel terrible about it, I just know I should."

Don gave him a dry grin. "Another entry on that list should be having your first thought after you shoot someone be dread at all the paperwork and questions you're gonna have to go through." The levity left his face entirely, and he picked up the file folder that was sitting beside him. He pulled out the sheet with the faces of all thirteen of the victims. "You know I've killed as many people as he has? How's that supposed to feel, huh?"

"I think that's a side of you that's a stranger to me," said Alan, startling them both. He was leaning against the doorjamb, holding his own beer while he listened quietly. "Maybe it's just because I'm your father, but I simply can't look the Don Eppes I know in the eyes and see a man who's killed thirteen people. I see a gentleness in you that makes that almost impossible for me to imagine, so I have to just tell myself there's another man in there somewhere that I don't know."

"Well - dad - I don't know what to tell you. I mean - that was me. There's - there's not some other guy in here, I promise."

"I know," said Alan. Seeing the slightly hurt expression in Don's eyes, he became thoughtful. "I didn't mean to imply that there's part of you I don't love. Just some parts that I don't understand."

Don nodded. "Let's say I put a gun in your hand, and you have one second to use it before someone kills Charlie, or me, or any one of the people you care about. Would you sit yourself down for a nice moral dilemma, or would you pull the trigger?"

Alan's eyes darkened, disliking his answer. "I would pull the trigger."

"That's me, dad. That's sometimes how I come home alive, too."

"Then I'd sit myself down for a nice moral dilemma," said Alan dryly.

"Well, there is that." Don smiled faintly. "That's why so many of those reports I was complaining about are filled out by psychologists."

"Speaking of psychology -" Alan indicated the file. "What do you think of this - this killer of yours?"

A flash of defensiveness crossed Don's face. "He's not mine, dad. What - you think one number connects us? Am I a serial killer in your mind now?"

"No," said Alan, holding up his hands to stop Don. "No. Figure of speech, Donnie."

Don relaxed with an awkward frown on his face, looking away. "You don't need to worry about any of us becoming his next victims, if that's what you were asking."

Alan sighed. "I was actually trying to make light conversation with my son about his job. You know, like normal families do?"

Don stood and headed for the door, stopping to grab his coat on the way out. "Well - I guess we aren't a normal family then, right?"

Alan looked after the departing agent with a deepening worry. "Charlie?"

"No idea," said Charlie, a knot in his own gut. "He seemed fine at the office." It was Alan's troubled expression that was scaring him, not Don's almost typical irritability. "You think something's wrong?"

Alan shook his head. "Probably nothing. He just reminded me of a time - never mind."


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's note:_ Well, it appears you guys liked it! :) *huggles reviewers* I've still got my concerns about writing a serial killer fic, but hopefully this one will dodge a few of the formulas. I'll go ahead with it. It's far from being complete (I post as I write, more or less), but I have a strong plot outline, a muse, and you guys :)

There are brief references in this chapter to events in my other Numb3rs fic, Fraudulent Perception. If you find yourself scratching your head at a few of Don's thoughts, that's why.

**LAW OFFICE OF SIDMARK AND TRASK, LOS ANGELES**

"Look, Mr. Graham." Lisa Trask leaned forward, struggling to maintain patience with her most whiny client. If it weren't for the revenue this man's endless suits and appeals and complaints generated.... "I appreciate your drive for justice, I truly do. If more people sought satisfaction in abuse cases the way you have, we'd see a lot less of it. But the judge's ruling is consistent with the law on this."

"Look - you have to appeal again. You just have to. I'll see this in front of the Supreme Court, no matter what."

"It doesn't work that way," said Trask, the irritation building. "The Supreme Court decides what cases it will hear, and yours doesn't stand a chance. None of them do," she added, referring to the litany of suits and appeals Cal Graham had launched over the years. Some of them she had inherited when Graham moved to LA, some she had simply had the displeasure of reviewing.

Graham jumped to his feet as though stung by an electric shock. "You don't understand!" His voice was almost a scream. "To be told you don't matter? That your suffering is somehow less because it was your father who beat you half to death? That victims deserve justice and sympathy unless they happen to be in prison? It matters, it matters just as much as some punk robbing a suburban housewife, but does anyone listen?"

"Sit. Down." Trask's order was obeyed, and she stood. "I understand. My high school sweetheart broke two of my ribs and raped me before date rape was a term the world knew. No, he didn't go to jail. Yes, it was decades before I stopped struggling with my past. But guess what, I didn't let one jackass stop me from having a successful career, two kids, and a loving husband."

An odd expression crossed Graham's face. "I'm sorry to hear that." He looked her over with renewed interest, and she felt a split second of unease.

"This meeting is over. Mr. Graham, I sincerely advise you to seek counseling and learn how to move on with your life instead of trying to fight your way through a legal system that has no ability to change your past."

**FBI OFFICE, BULL PEN**

"What's the matter with him?" asked Don, tucking his phone away. He'd been on his way up when David called, but the concern in the other agent's voice rendered the ride longer than he'd have liked.

"Hey, Don," greeted David, angling himself into Don's path. "Charlie saw something in the files for that serial case he's working on that really disturbed him. He won't talk about it, so-"

Don nodded, touching the other agent in thanks. "I got it."

"Don." David stopped him. "Charlie isn't the most stoic person in the world, but he's no green civilian. There isn't much that makes him even flinch these days. You get what I'm saying?"

Don looked at him, his expression hard. "Whatever it is, it's bad. Real bad."

"Yeah. Go easy, big brother."

Don nodded. "Thanks."

"He's in the small conference room. He asked me to turn the lights out, and he wanted to be left alone."

Don stopped. That was where he put the grief-stricken and the terrified; the soft carpet and plush furnishings helping lend a sense of safety and comfort to the space that was lacking in their more utilitarian office. The fact that David had placed Charlie in that category made Don decidedly anxious, but he finally heeded David's efforts to prevent him from charging headlong into the conference room. Forcing himself to relax, he stopped by the break room to get a coffee and a soda.

**FBI OFFICE, CONFERENCE ROOM**

The carpeted floor was in shadow, but he could see Charlie in the corner, sitting against the heavy drapes and looking out over the city. Don closed the door behind him with a soft click and approached, touching Charlie on the shoulder.

He pulled back the tab on the soda and pressed the cold can into his brother's hand. "The sugar'll help settle your stomach. Drink some, okay?"

Charlie forced himself to sip the soda, avoiding Don's gaze. Don remained quiet, knowing better than to press. He'd seen this often enough in victims and witnesses to know that silent compassion took the place of a dozen concerned questions.

It took a good five minutes for Charlie to speak, and when he did it took him a great deal of determination to keep his voice from breaking. "Don - why did you hide this from us? How could you hide this?"

"Hide - what?" asked Don. A few seconds later, the pieces clicked together in his brain, and his breathing stopped. He awaited Charlie's answer in the hope that by some sheer force of luck this didn't mean what he thought it did.

Please tell me Charlie didn't read that file.

Please, God, tell me Charlie didn't see that.

"I saw the Swampland killer file. Ethan Rogerson." Charlie lost the battle when Don met his eyes, and started crying softly. It was the sort of unabashed grief Don hadn't seen since Margaret's death. He knelt down and put his hand on Charlie's arm. It broke his heart, but he also caught himself indulging in a pang of regret, of wishing he had the ability to simply cry like that.

He was certain it felt better than his own alternatives, which were currently kicking the crap out of his gut while they did their very best to strangle him. Don bit down on his lip and resisted the urge to scream, or kick something. Damn it. Years of rebuilding relationships on his own terms, the hard-won trust between him and Charlie, his own distance from the whole mess - that one damn file was going to bring it all down. He stood suddenly and exited, walking without seeing, trying to bring himself under control without wounding anything or anyone else in the process.

Charlie watched him leave, and his tears dried leaving him sadder than before, an ache of empty defeat in his heart. It was the ache of knowing that no matter how far and seemingly deep the trust between them had come, it was still only a convenience. Don's iron ability to block out the world, including his family, and throw them down in his wake was intact. The Don he knew now, much as he wanted to believe otherwise, was just a shield for the stranger who trusted nobody. Who could, after something like that?

Another pang of sadness hit Charlie. I could. It would shatter me beyond all belief, but I would still trust Don. I would cling to him for dear life and it would scare me to death, but I would know that somehow, he would be able to pull me out of the darkness.

He scooted across the carpet and leaned against the window, looking down and imagining himself falling. He felt like he was falling now, and he almost welcomed it, because a fall meant an impact, and an impact signaled the end of the pain that came with this constant dance of feeling and trying and hoping. Maybe it wasn't the horrors Don had been subjected to that he should be grieving, but the fact that he had found the end of trust, and found that it felt like the end of the world. Maybe he really could fall off it, just close his eyes and let go.

**INTERVIEW ROOM, FBI OFFICE**

Don's blinded march ended in an empty interview room, in a chair with his head in his hands.

Go easy, big brother.

David's words rang in his ears, and he forced himself to steady his thoughts. These bonds were fragile, but at the same time strong beyond all reckoning. No. The file won't bring it all down. You will. You'll do what you always do, you'll get scared when this threatens to actually make you feel or remember, and you'll run like hell. You'll plow through anyone in your path to make it stop, but Charlie will still be here crying in a conference room, because he loves you.

Go easy, big brother.

Be worthy of that love. He closed his eyes. This is going to hurt. He opened them again and looked around, and he remembered an equal feeling of dread and pain, when Nychev had walked him out of this room under arrest for fraud. He remembered Charlie, visiting him and listening and understanding. David, talking to him gently on the phone for as long as the the detention officers would let him. Alan, with that stoic wisdom of his, holding them all together until his eldest son got to come home. Above all, he remembered lying in a cell missing his people and his life and his job with choking intensity, and knowing he would give almost anything not to lose them.

You treasure these people and these relationships, don't destroy them just because you don't want to face this. When you were in the detention center, you had no control over your destiny and it about killed you. You do have control over this. No matter what, this is going to hurt. Come out the other side with your soul in one piece.

He returned to the conference room.

Charlie was no longer crying; he was sitting slumped against the plate-glass window in a state of defeat, and he didn't bother to look up when Don entered.

"Hey, buddy. Who hasn't been abducted by a serial killer once or twice? It's the in thing these days." He sat down on the floor facing Charlie. "Huh. Nice soft carpet. I never sat on it before." The guilty diversion sounded moronic even to him, and he opted to shut up.

"Why didn't you tell me?" asked Charlie again. His voice was dull and wounded; he wasn't truly hoping for an answer.

"Look - it's not what you think. I was in therapy forever after it happened, I've talked about it with the right professionals, and I pulled through. The things that happened - I really didn't want to have you guys know about them, okay? I still don't. I don't want anyone in my life to look at me and see that in their eyes."

Charlie closed his eyes and gulped. "I - didn't want to know either. I stopped reading right away, and - I still had to go throw up." He was close to doing it again now. "I can't un-see the words in that report."

Don looked at him, wondering how to repair the damage he had caused. "Look - sometimes we just have to run. I'll try to be - braver, okay?"

Charlie stood and very carefully, very gently placed his arms around his older brother. Don stiffened and started to pull away, but checked himself and surrendered to the hug. There was something too deeply caring in the simple gesture for him to be able to hold himself apart, and he was surprised to feel himself relax unbidden. Charlie sat beside him and held him as though he might vanish otherwise. "What did you read?" asked Don finally.

Charlie struggled to answer.

"It's okay, buddy. It's all right."

"I - I - I think now I know why you can't talk about it. I don't want to-" Charlie gave up on trying to make his voice work, and Don found himself hugging Charlie back. For a long time, the two brothers continued to simply hold each other in an awkward but entirely heartfelt grip that seemed to say what they couldn't voice.

"Charlie?" There was a sort of worried appeal in Don's voice. "Please don't go back and read that file. If you absolutely gotta know more, I'll find a way to tell you."

"I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you," said Charlie, holding him tighter.

"Never wanted you to be," said Don. "Think I wanted any of you to have to bear my burdens?" Charlie didn't answer. "Look, Charlie, I have a good life. A great life, really, and I don't want you or anyone else to have to feel pain for me."

"A life where you've suffered virtually all of the most traumatic things that can ever happen to a human being?"

"No! A life where I have a job I'm good at, a loving family, stable relationship with an amazing woman, all the money I need, two roofs over my head - I'm healthy, happy, so what if life hurts sometimes? News flash Charlie, it does! When we lost mom, that hurt like hell, but it didn't mean we ceased to have quality lives, not after the first while."

"Look, if you see me in pain now, offer me comfort and be at my side. But please don't let something that was done years ago tear you apart, okay?" He rubbed Charlie's shoulder for a long time, thinking about the human capacity for compassion. "You know what's eating at me right now? Seeing you miserable. Vicious cycle, don't you think?"

Charlie gave a short laugh, but it was a laugh none the less. "Does dad know?"

Don shook his head. "And you're not gonna even think about telling him. That report's classified, remember?"

Charlie was silent, and after a moment, Don spoke again in a much gentler voice. "Please?"

"The thing is, I know I - can't just move on and forget this ever happened." He looked at Don. "Usually I'll talk things over with Dad, or Amita. If I can't -"

"You can talk to me," said Don, surprising himself by actually meaning it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**FBI OFFICE, CONFERENCE ROOM**

Don stood and motioned to Charlie. "Come on, I'll cut out early and give you a ride home." Charlie followed him out to the parking garage and the two brothers got into Don's truck. The silence lasted through city streets and onto the freeway to Pasadena, and finally Don glanced over.

"I'm not a fragile individual, Charlie. If you've got something to say, say it."

"I wish I did." Charlie looked at the cars ahead, contemplating Don in his peripheral vision. He was at ease behind the wheel, the drive calming him and unwinding tensions. To Charlie, it was long, miserable hours trapped with his brother in the back seat in the name of family recreation. It was learning to drive on a freeway full of suicidal, homicidal maniacs. This was definitely Don's environment, not his.

Charlie looked around, suddenly understanding what Don was saying to him, perhaps without even being conscious of doing so. I feel safe here. If you want to meet me on my own terms, here I am.

Finally he voiced the illogical, childish fear that was nagging at him. "Don - I have to ask - is there any way the man who kidnapped you could be our serial killer?"

Is this monster going to come for you again? Maybe not during this case, but sometime in a shadowy future, am I going to wake up and find that a nightmare stole my brother away in the night?

Don shook his head. "Dead."

"Shootout?"

"Lethal injection."

"Oh," said Charlie. Something in his gut unwound with relief, and on a civilized level, he disliked himself for that. On some other level....

"New Mexico State Prison. I witnessed it. My first execution."

Charlie frowned. "Am I happy, or sad? I hear they're horrible to watch."

"Didn't feel much of anything. Slept better after, knowing there was no way he could come after me again, but I'd seen people die. Don't get me wrong - I do value life, a lot - this just wasn't the worst death I'd seen. Wasn't like on TV - no camera angles, no music, it was over fast. Afterwards I passed his lawyer throwing up in the hall, and I think I felt worse for that guy. I stopped to talk to the prosecutor in a break room, and this hard-ass prison guard who helped strap him down was gulping down coffee and trying not to cry in front of us. Those got me."

They pulled into the driveway, and Don parked the truck. He looked down, remembering moments past yet still vivid. His glance at Charlie asked if he still wanted to be listening to this, and the answer was yes. I'm your brother, I want to know you. I want to be your friend.

"I checked out of the prison and got my gun back, out of the locker. It got me thinking - I mean, I'd shot people before, knew what it looked like, felt like. I'd just seen this guy executed. I sat down in my car and played it out in my head. What if that guy who killed all those people horribly, who tortured me, was lying there strapped down to a table just like he was. Someone hands me my gun and tells me I can shoot him. That I got full permission from the law and from society to go in and kill the bastard."

"In my head, I walk up to him. He's got that same fuck-you look on his face, he doesn't struggle or beg for mercy or anything, just waits for me to shoot him the way he waited for the injection. I put the gun to his head, I check my aim, and I glance at the restraints to make sure he can't jerk away at the last second and end up suffering. My finger goes on the trigger, and I know right then that I'm not gonna do it. It wasn't pity or philosophy, it was just this absolute wrongness, killing a helpless person even though I loathed him. It's everything a serial killer is capable of, and I wasn't. I was glad there was that difference between him and me, and it wasn't a line I'd eradicate."

Charlie drew in a deep breath. "Wow. You know I'm the opposite? I'm opposed to the death penalty, but if someone killed Amita, or Dad, or you - I'd want them dead. I'd want to kill them myself."

"Oh, me too," said Don. "Hey, I spent the whole time I was in the basement figuring out how to kill that guy, and given the opportunity I would have. If someone hurt my family, I'd want to beat them to death, and I might actually do it. But not five years later, with them strapped down to a table so they couldn't move. You think you could do that?"

"No," admitted Charlie. "Not like that." He thought for a minute. "I suppose that's actually a rather valuable thing to know about oneself."

"It is," said Don. He drew his gun, and keeping it carefully on safe and aimed away from Charlie, held it in his hands. Charlie found himself staring. He was so accustomed to his brother carrying a gun that he tended to forget that it was, indeed, a gun. "No matter how justified, you ask yourself horrible questions after. Learned I wasn't capable of pulling the trigger on someone who wasn't a real threat, no matter how pissed off or how scared I was. Logical next step says if I did fire and my gut didn't stop me...I gave myself permission not to feel guilty about it."

"All of my shootings have cleared, quick, and I've never had a wrongful death suit make it past summary judgment. It helps." He looked away. "Sometimes I get so - every time, I hope I never have to watch another human being die by my hand."

Charlie watched him for a long time, at first wondering if this was a deliberate change of subject. It dawned on him that it wasn't; it was a very honest moment of trust, a way of revealing something that was bothering Don more than things past or files found. "Don. You are so not a serial killer, you have nothing in common with this man."

Don nodded. His phone rang, and both brothers startled. Don answered his phone and holstered his gun almost as one movement. "David?"

"Sorry to call you back in, but, ah, LAPD just reported a kidnapping. Wrong MO for our guy, but the case has a very strange ring to it. Guy looses an appeal in court today, has a conversation with his lawyer, and then kidnaps the doctor who testified on his behalf at the hearing."

"I'm on my way." Don snapped his phone shut, and Charlie got out of the truck.

**FBI OFFICE, WAR ROOM**

Don glanced at his watch; it was almost six. "Why are we thinking our killer?"

"The client's a domestic abuse survivor, and he did six years for trying to kill his abusive father when he was eighteen."

Don's expression lit up. "We actually have an ID on this guy?"

"Yep. His name's Calvin Graham, goes by Cal. The victim is a medical doctor, ah, Adim Davis." Colby brought the images of the two men up on the screen.

Graham, middle aged, pudgy, disgruntled-looking. Don summarized him in his mind: balding, angry white guy.

"Get warrants on his house, his car, his office, anything he touches. I want covert teams watching the house, now. We don't want to scare him off if he tries to take him there. If he's in the house, we scramble HRT. If you find his car, put a tracker on it." He glanced back to make sure David had copied him.

"Robin's already working on the warrants. She's getting them for the victim's properties as well."

Don nodded. "Good idea. We'll want to watch them too. DNA on Graham?"

"We don't have a sample yet, I'll send an evidence team to work on it. He was in prison back before we started collecting DNA samples from offenders, so we need the sample before we can try to match him to the other victims. Nikki and Liz are questioning the witnesses at the law firm."

"Okay, good. Good job." Don looked over the photos again, trying to pin down a grasp on the motivations. Adim Davis, younger, Middle Eastern descent, with a soft expression and intelligent gaze. There was no aggression or anger there, and Don pointed at the doctor's photo. "History of domestic violence?"

David shook his head, confirming Don's snap judgment of their victim.

Colby was studying the file on Dr. Davis. "Am I the only one getting a 'too easy' vibe from this? He doesn't match the profile at all, this is more like your garden variety 'I lost at trial' freak-out."

"The serial killer has never been witnessed taking one of his victims," said David. "If it's him, he's changing his game entirely."

"Yeah, I know," said Don. "It's a kidnapping, we work it regardless. What do we have on this doctor?"

"US citizen, Muslim family with an American father and an Iranian mother. He's a humanitarian, worked with Doctors Without Borders for six years, now he works the urgent care clinic out of the hospital downtown. Takes on a lot of volunteer work on the side. Married, 37, no kids, upstanding citizen, no records of contact with law enforcement as a victim or a suspect."

David's phone rang, and he listened intently before hanging up and briefing them. "Graham is holding Adim Davis hostage in a lumber mill outside of town. HRT has the place surrounded, and the crisis team is negotiating with him right now. They think it'll take most of the night, but they can talk him out. The victim is unhurt and calm."

"Well - that was easy," said Don.

"Too easy," said Colby again.

Don rolled his eyes with a smile. "Might not be our serial killer. But I won't turn down a happy end to a kidnapping. Go home, get some rest. If Graham isn't the guy, we could still have some long days ahead."

**DON'S APARTMENT, THAT EVENING**

"Don." Robin's voice was gentle and caring, but it invited no nonsense. "You came home looking like a ghost, and now you're acting like a zombie. What happened?"

He laughed, grabbing onto her words as distraction. "I'm not undead. Just - personal stuff."

Robin rolled her eyes, but she reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder, rubbing it gently until his posture gave her silent permission to move up to his neck, a soft caress seeking out tense muscles and massaging them, playing in his hair. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation and her ability to disarm him at his most guarded moments. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "I'll tell you," he promised. "Might take me a while, okay?"

"Okay," said Robin, yielding to the pressure of his arm and folding herself into his lap, her head against his chest. "As long as you keep trying."

"I am." Something in his voice wavered in a way that caught at Robin's heart. "I really am." He stroked her hair and her face for a while, until they both relaxed. When he spoke again, it was almost a whisper. "Stay with me, please. If things get rough over the next few weeks...."

"I won't leave," she promised instantly, trying to ease the hidden fear in his voice. She spent so much time worrying about whether he was going to leave her, whether for another woman or simply for a different place in his head, that it was easy for her to forget that thus far, she'd been the only one to walk out. "I promise. I love you, even when you're - you."

He kissed her, and she could feel him smiling. "You are one brave woman," he whispered.

"Tell me about it," she teased back. "I do know a way you could ease my innermost fears...."

Don raised his eyebrows and grinned.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**EPPES RESIDENCE, 5AM THE NEXT DAY**

"Hey, buddy." Charlie blinked his eyes open the rest of the way and tried to focus his sleepy mind on Don's voice. "That hostage negotiation is still on, it's nonviolent but the negotiators are starting to think they're being played."

"Okay." Charlie allowed his eyes to close. The last evening was coming back, and for that he was less than thankful. With day and the sound of Don's voice came the hurt of remembering that file, and it was distinctly unwelcome.

"I'm heading out to the scene, you think you might be able to go over to the office and see what you can see? The negotiators have a lot of tape and footage of the hostage-taker, but they can't pin down their exact location in the mill. Equipment in there generates a lot of heat and noise, so it's screwing up thermal imaging and parabolic sensors."

"Okay," said Charlie, sitting up in bed.

What do you hear in Don's voice? Focus. Focus on the case at hand, not something that happened years ago.

It happened to him years ago.

It happened to me yesterday.

Does he realize that?

"Charlie!" Don's voice was harsh, deliberately so, and it focused him. "We have a hostage waiting for us to rescue him, and he may be in the hands of a serial killer."

**BIGGS LUMBER MILL, EXTERIOR PARKING LOT, 7AM**

"How'd you get here so fast, Charlie?"

"Helicopter. This is a popular destination right now, I hitched a ride. I've refined the location based on wireless transmissions and satellite imaging, but I think I've got something else you're going to want to know about."

"Okay." Don waved for Charlie to follow him into the mobile command center. "Charlie, this is the lead crisis negotiator, Lance Frye. Lance, my brother Charlie."

"Nice to meet you, professor," said the negotiator, reaching out a hand and giving Charlie a weary greeting. "It's been a long night, and I'm starting to smell a rat. This guy is following every model of prolonging a negotiation and avoiding a tactical breach."

Charlie sighed. "Well, I ran an analysis on the voice recordings of your hostage speaking to you on the phone, you know, telling you he's all right? He's not. He's being tortured."

"What?" asked Don, startled.

"Well, you were concerned that you were being played, and that got me wondering if the hostage was in on it, so I ran a voice analysis. He's not just stressed out because he was kidnapped, he's terrified and in pain."

Frye's eyes widened in concern. "No - no. I even made this guy use his cell phone to record video proofs of life to send us every so often. The hostage looks tired, he's stressed and he's obviously been crying a bit - but - no." Fry swiveled in his chair as one of the agents brought up a video clip on the screen. "Look. He's not restrained, no bruising or swelling, no excessive fear of Graham's movements...there's no sign of mistreatment, let alone torture." His voice was reflecting the worry his words masked.

"Freeze that!" Don tapped on the screen, and traced his finger along one barely visible glint of light, then a second. "Those are TASER leads." He pointed at the floor. "Pan down and zoom in on the floor?"

The agent obeyed, and the picture showed a faint variation in patterning on the pitted wooden floor, like specks of color or paper. "Confetti. It's imprinted with the serial number of the TASER unit, and it discharges when the unit is fired."

"Oh, God." Fry buried his head in his hands. "All the machinery running in the mill - it would muffle screaming."

"We need to go tactical, pull that guy out fast before this goes any worse," said Don. "Good job, Charlie. Lance, give your HRT team the go-ahead."

"Guys." All hands focused on Charlie. "I don't think your hostage-taker is there any longer. The last cell phone call originated from a mile west of here. I don't want to walk you guys into an ambush, but look at this." He handed the tech agent a flash drive, and the agent pulled up overlapping images. "That's a chip truck leaving the mill a little under two hours ago via the back gate. Look at the top of the truck."

Charlie pointed at a blotch on the top of the truck trailer, and then at a slightly closer image of the truck on a highway headed towards LA which showed a much clearer outline, of a darkly dressed human figure.

Frye aimed a vicious kick at the side of the truck and turned away. "He killed my hostage. The bastard tortured and killed my fucking hostage and got away."

"We don't know that yet," said Don.

Frye turned back to face him, hurt and anger radiating from every pore. "Yes we do. Go find the body, I'm going home. Who the hell cleared that truck!"

Don grabbed him by the arm. "Get medical on standby, I'm going in with your team. We assume he's alive until we find out otherwise, got it?"

**BIGGS LUMBER MILL, LAMINATION PLANT, 7:25AM**

The hostage was sitting slumped on the grated floor of a metal catwalk, his hands folded in his lap. He raised his head when the agents entered, but his expression didn't change. He was too exhausted, too shell-shocked. Don knelt down in front of him. "It's over, okay? You're safe, and I'll have a medic up here as soon as these guys clear the building."

Don hit transmit on his radio. "3695 to Frye, hostage is secure. Stand down." Don tried to engage Davis, making eye contact. "You have no idea how happy that call just made him. He thought he'd gotten you killed, took it pretty hard."

"Cal said he'd electrocute me if I moved." The doctor's voice was flat, as though he'd given up on all emotion. It reflected neither hope, nor fear, merely fact.

"That's not going to happen," said Don, reassuring him as another agent took position with a gun on the other side of the catwalk. "We've got you. I want to disconnect the leads running to that TASER, okay? It just takes a moment, and it won't hurt."

The doctor nodded, giving Don the barest beginning of a grateful glance as he moved to disconnect the thin wires leading to two darts imbedded in his back. "Who are you?"

"I'm Don Eppes, I'm an FBI agent." Don held up the wires, showing them to the doctor and tossing them aside. "It can't hurt you any more."

The hostage went limp, closing his eyes in relief and curling up on his side on the floor. "Thank you." Don nodded. "I need you to tell Frye for me that - that he kept me going. His voice on that phone."

"He didn't know what was happening to you, none of us did," said Don. "We never would have let the negotiations go on that long if we knew you were being hurt."

"I know. Cal made me pretend -"

"Is Cal a guy named Calvin Graham?"

Dr. Davis nodded. "Can I go home now?" His voice was weak, and Don balled up his windbreaker and tucked it under Davis's head to make him more comfortable.

"Yeah." Don gave him a somewhat amused smile. "I think we're going to want to have you checked out by a doctor first, though." A medical team was headed up the grated stairs bearing a stretcher, and Don stood. "I'm gonna leave you with these guys now, they'll take good care of you."

Davis didn't move. Don headed out of the building, and when he stepped out into the daylight he stopped, blinking up at the clear sky. It was blurry to his eyes, like he'd stepped back into an old photograph.

**RURAL NEW MEXICO, UNKNOWN RESIDENTIAL BASEMENT**

"What do you go by, Agent Eppes? Got a nickname?"

Don knew instinctively that whatever this guy called him, he would loathe that name for rest of his life. If he lived. It seemed like a moment of truth: plan to live, or plan to die.

He liked his name, liked hearing his friends and his family call him Don. "Donnie" always made him smile inside, whether it was dad or Petey. Letting Ethan Rogerson call him that would hasten the end; add to the pain and hate and make death that much easier, that much more welcome. Don would become something else, something lost.

Choosing something else meant choosing to live through this, and choosing to live through this scared him so badly he had to force each word out of his mouth individually. "Donald. They call me Donald."

"Well, Donald." There were fingers tracing down his bare back, and he braced himself. "You like control, do you? Refuse to let people nickname you?"

"Nah, they just don't like me much, is all." The lying was getting easier now, giving him a game of his own to play.

"Why not?"

"Because I don't give a fuck what they think about me. They think I should care about their little bar get-togethers and their kids' dirty diapers, but -" he shrugged. "It's just not worth the effort." Don figured that should rate a good seven on the sociopath scale.

BIGGS LUMBER MILL

Damn it, Charlie. I don't need to remember it, I don't need to talk about it, I just need to live my life and do my job. That too much to ask?

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and called David. "Charlie was right, Graham rabbited. Hostage has been through hell, but he doesn't look badly injured."

"Thank God," said David. "I put out an APB on Graham as soon as Charlie pulled up those images, just in case."

Don nodded, some of the tension unwinding. He wondered if David knew just how badly he was going to be missed once the inevitable transfer and promotion happened. "Thanks. How long until we get the DNA results?"

"Ah - probably early this afternoon. Why, do you still think he's the killer? Taking hostages and leaving them alive is way off target for our guy."

"Yeah." Don looked up at the sun, letting it blind him. "But the killer uses a TASER on his victims, right?"

"That's what the medical examiner thinks," said David. "Small puncture wounds that appear to have been electro-cauterized were on all of the bodies."

"Well, that's what was done to Dr. Davis. I want a full-on manhunt for Graham in effect until we get those DNA results."

**ROBIN'S APARTMENT, THAT NIGHT**

"So, I netted myself a Fed," said a voice outside of Don's vision. Don tensed, his heart beating faster than he'd ever known was possible. Being choked out had been a horrible enough experience, but waking up blinded and captive with no clue about his location was worse. He swallowed, and realized there was a reason he still felt like he was being strangled. There was something around his neck, and he raised his fingers to explore it. There was a metal chain, and a lock. It wasn't until he felt Rogerson grab his shirt that he realized his hands weren't restrained, and he aimed a hard punch at what he hoped was Rogerson's throat.

It missed and glanced off the killer's arm, and the chain around his neck jerked him to the ground. He bucked against it, feeling his breathing cut off as a foot pinned the chain, and him, to the ground face down.

New plan. Wait until he bends over you, and kick him in the face. He tried to angle his legs into the right position, and only then did he realize they were still tied together. Damn. Rogerson grabbed his shirt again, and Don froze, trying to calculate his next move. There was a slicing sound, and cool air against his skin. Rogerson was cutting his clothing off.

Don experienced a moment of sheer, unabashed fear, and he forced himself back to Quantico.

_Panic can kill you. If you feel it start to happen, and if you can't control your fear, get mad. Channel that energy into rage, and your chances of surviving go way up._

Okay, fuck this. This bastard's getting his brains smashed in with my boot, and now. Don brought both of his bound legs up behind him in a furious kick that was driven by more terror than he had ever wanted to experience in his entire life. It connected with something, and the foot came off the chain. He grabbed Rogerson's ankle and rolled, trying to jerk him off his feet. Something pricked Don's back, he heard an odd clicking sound, and his whole body exploded in pain.

"What the hell was that?"

Don didn't realize he'd asked the question until he heard his own voice, and the sound of it scared him. It was strangled and weak.

"What, I'd think an FBI agent would be up on all the new toys," Rogerson mocked. "It's a taser. Easier to use than battery cables, and a lot more fun."

Rogerson's knife started working at Don's jeans, and he readied a new struggle only to have a sensation akin to being beaten with a thousand burning baseball bats assault him once more. When the shock ended the chain around his neck was pulled tight again, and he was choking. "Hold still, agent Eppes." The shock gripped him and he tried to scream, but he couldn't. He was still being choked, and FBI special agent Don Eppes learned the true meaning of panic.

Robin was jarred from her sleep by a choked scream and the explosive jerk of every muscle in Don's body rocoiling. His sudden movement sent him rolling backwards off the edge of the bed, and he landed on the floor with a thud that turned Robin's stomach. In an instant she was out of the bed and kneeling beside him, looking into a pair of truly terrified brown eyes. He was shivering, and she knew it was only partly because of bare skin on a cold floor but she jerked a blanket off the bed nonetheless, pulling it around his shoulders in a frantic effort to help.

It took only seconds for Don to relax, and he laid his head back on the floor, closing his eyes with a groan. Bits of hair were pasted to his face with sweat, and his breathing was uneven. His eyes opened again and searched out hers. This time they were filled with worry, not fear. "Hey, sweetie." His hand wrapped around hers. "Did I hurt you?" She shook her head. "Scare you?"

"To death." She grabbed his hand, clinging to it as though letting go would let him die. "Was that - a _nightmare_?" He nodded, and she shivered involuntarily. "God, Don, what-"

"Later. Please." His voice was soft and gentle, but his body was still taut with leftover horror, and she nodded instantly.

"You look like you need a strong drink," she said. "Can I get you one?"

Don shook his head. "Alcohol and flashbacks, not smart. Get yourself one."

She stood and coaxed Don to his feet with her, leaving her arm wrapped around him for a minute before walking into the kitchen. She poured out vodka into a glass and searched the fridge for a mixer. Cranberry juice, that would do.

Not really, it wouldn't. What on earth would? They'd both expected some sleepless nights and nightmares after the stabbing, and indeed those had come. Don had accepted them with grace and even humor, joking that they were really just an excuse to get her to wake up and cuddle him. When he really had needed comfort, he crawled deep into her arms and even deeper into her heart, and found it.

He answered her questions before she asked them, walking into the kitchen and sitting at the table. "It happened a long time ago. Charlie found a file, and he's been pushing the issue."

"Were you ever going to tell me?"

"Not if I didn't have to."

She sighed. "Of course." She stared at the patterns of the table for a minute, collecting her thoughts. "You don't have to. Not if this is what it does to you."

The world's most endearing FBI agent gave her a look that spoke volumes of gratitude and adoration, and she couldn't resist standing and hugging him. "Just remember, Don," she said, sitting back down. "All these horrific cases of yours? I prosecute them. You might have to get hands-on with the crime scenes, but I spend months with the victims and the evidence studying every detail. I talk to these criminals in jail. A strong stomach is pretty much a requirement of the job."

Don gave her a sideways smile. "Point taken."


	5. Chapter 5

**FBI OFFICE, DON'S DESK, 1:30PM**

"Knock knock?"

Liz peered over the partition at Don, and he grinned in greeting. "You got a warrant?"

She laughed. "Well, I have the results of one, will that do? The lab just faxed over the DNA test findings, and it turns out Calvin Graham is a serial killer."

Don frowned. "Huh." He pondered that for a moment, and then stood to head for the war room. "Maybe Colby's right about this being a 'lost at trial' freak-out. He's way off his normal MO."

"Serial killers are people too?"

"Maybe. Something like that."

"Makes total sense," said Colby, joining them. "You know, I lose an appeal, generally I like to blow off steam by kidnapping the doctor who helped me and tasing him overnight. That and a little healthy conversation with a crisis negotiator usually sets me up to face the day anew."

Liz wrinkled her nose. "Ew." She aimed a playful slap at Colby, who dodged it with a grin and opened the door to the war room for her. "Remind me not to ever unwind with you after a hard day at work."

Colby tried to keep his mouth shut, but the lead-in was too irresistible. "Drinks later this evening?"

Don glanced at his watch. "Anyone know if Adim Davis has been debriefed yet?"

Nikki looked up from a pile of papers and printouts spread across the table. "He was just released from the hospital. A couple of our guys tried to talk to him and he was pretty much still in shock. Gave us a basic description of Graham and not much else, but he did say the guy was obsessed with the cycle of violence."

"The cycle of violence?"

"Yep. The wife-beating, child-traumatizing version of Charlie's shooting chains," said Nikki.

"They even have a fancy little graphic for it," said David. "Actually it refers to the cycle of violence as contained in a single abusive relationship, but Nikki and I are thinking he's going for a broader interpretation, something more along the lines of the tenancy of the abused to turn into abusers themselves."

Don took the printout from David. "Looks like the domestic abuse version of recycling. What else have you got?"

"Running deep background on Graham, and it's painting a pretty clear picture. His grandfather beat up his father, who grew up to kick around his own wife and their child, Cal Graham. At eighteen Graham's had enough, and shoots his father. The father survives and Graham does a six-year stint in maximum security, where he claims he was raped and prison officials didn't care enough to do anything about it. He gets out, his father dies, and he inherits the family business, which gives him enough money to sue everyone from his family doctor to the state prison."

"Sounds like standard issue serial killer upbringing to me," said Liz.

Don shuffled through the collected documents, absorbing the various strands of information. "Torturing Davis - was it revenge?"

"Davis isn't talking much," said David. "He told the agents who questioned him that he didn't know why, but my guess is he doesn't want to discuss it."

"Yeah, he knows," said Don. "Give him some time. Let's maintain a full-scale manhunt. Media, most-wanted lists, border alerts, APB to all agencies in the state. If losing this appeal threw him over the edge enough to break from his routine, he might still be rattled enough to slip up under the pressure and get caught."

Nikki pretended to write on a legal pad. "Call in hounds. Got it."

"No, I got another job for you," said Don, a hint of mischief appearing in his eyes. "Get in touch with Edgerton, see if he's available to give us a hand out here."

"Me?" Nikki rolled her eyes. "Classy."

**CAL SCI, CHARLIE'S OFFICE**

Charlie was finding it difficult to focus on writing his speech; everything about it seemed distant and abstract. Numbers were easy to teach, to talk about, to lecture on. This, not so much. His eyes found a paper clip and he pulled out a handful of them, arranging them in a fractal pattern on his desk. Self-similarity. Not an appropriate topic with which to serenade donors supporting research into manmade disaster response. He swept the clips away, thankful for the interruption of footsteps outside his door.

There was something tightly wound in Robin's posture, even angry. Very Don-like. "Hi - come in," said Charlie.

"Actually - would you mind taking a walk outside with me?" asked Robin.

Charlie accepted the invitation, glad for a diversion. It was a nice day, and they strolled across the landscaped grounds of the university for a while before Robin stopped in a private spot and faced him.

"Charlie - I know you and Don haven't been close for your whole lives, but I get the impression you would walk through fire for each other."

Charlie nodded, glancing at her in a certain amount of trepidation.

Robin's eyes searched his. "I also get the impression that as good as you are at working together and supporting each other, you have an unwitting tendency to cause each other pain."

"Years ago, maybe," said Charlie.

Robin's face tightened. "Look. Don doesn't need me to protect him, and I have no intention of getting between the two of you. But - he woke up screaming last night."

Charlie stopped breathing. Screaming. Don. Screaming. He blinked his eyes to clear them, but it didn't work. "I want to forget. I want to stop seeing - and thinking -"

"Charlie." Robin's expression softened, the anger which had been seething below the surface receding. "Whatever happened to him, he managed to stop seeing it. But last night...."

"It came back." Charlie twisted his head away at an angle, and it didn't make the images go away, or the guilt. Why? Why did I have to see that file? Why did I tell him? Why did my brother have to go through that? Why couldn't he tell us?

"Did he tell you what happened?"

"I know better than to ask," said Robin.

Charlie didn't realize he was feeling dizzy until his feet wandered unbidden into each other, and he staggered. They were passing a bench, and he pointed at it with a gesture he hoped reflected relaxation rather than incipient shock. From the speed with which Robin nodded, he guessed the attempt was a failure. They sat, and Charlie felt a soothing warmth on his arm. Robin's touch was something far gentler than what he would have expected from a federal prosecutor. He looked over, feeling suddenly shy but hoping she wouldn't pull her hand away just yet. "I'm glad Don has you," said Charlie. "You're - right for him."

"I think I made a mistake," said Robin. "Coming here, trying to get in the middle of this." She looked away. "Maybe - walking through fire for each other is something important to you two."

Charlie shook his head. "I hope not. I should have known better than to tell him, or ask him....I shouldn't have opened that wound."

Robin leaned against the back of the bench. "That's what I thought. Now - I don't know. There can be a fine line between protecting people and controlling them. You're going with what's honest, and maybe that's the most loving thing in the end."

**FBI OFFICE, CONFIDENTIAL COMMUNICATIONS**

Charlie was intensely focused on the computers within, and Don hesitated with his hand on the door for a moment. This feeling of dread was a familiar one, and he steadied his breathing and remembered standing just like this outside Allison Kelly's office every time he had to make himself go in for one of those horrible, oddly comforting therapy sessions. It was never so bad as he feared, telling someone what he felt or remembered. What hurt was the pain in their eyes, and the feeling that he was forcing a compassionate person to suffer along with him.

Don swiped his ID badge in front of the card reader, and the door clicked open. Charlie glanced up, and Don got it out quickly. "Hey, buddy. Calvin Graham's our serial killer. We do need to know where he is, so your victim forecasting might turn out to be pretty important."

"With his recent change in behavior, that could prove difficult," said Charlie.

Don nodded. "Thought as much." He wheeled the chair over and scanned the pages on the screen. "Uck. Having any issues with this?"

Charlie glanced down. "A few. It's nothing I can't manage."

It was bravado. Nothing wrong with that, in theory. It got them through the day and sent them home emotionally intact, joking about warrants and recycling symbols. The difference was, nobody in that war room wanted to go face to face with the reality of what was happening. A professional didn't; too much empathy could destroy anyone, and Charlie had learned to balance his natural compassion with distance as well as any of them.

The danger was trying to hide and ignore those times when the wall crumbled and one did feel. They couldn't be ignored, not really. Shouldn't be. They were what made a good agent in the end, the ability to experience and offer compassion and feeling. Those were the things courage was made of, and sometimes the things that could truly save a life, or help mend a broken one.

Or destroy one. With true compassion comes pain, and with pain anger, and with anger comes inflicting pain.

Damn it. What happened to being able to not think about all this?

"Spill, Charlie."

"Don - I've seen you work serial cases, and kidnappings, torture cases, rapes - I never got the feeling they touched a nerve."

Don shrugged. "They don't."

"You don't see yourself? Relate it to what you went through?"

"That's every case," said Don.

"Really?"

"Every victim, every hurt person whose eyes I see. They touch me - I know where they are. The crimes, the criminals -" he shrugged. "Nah. Just the job. And I felt for them long before I got snatched."

"What happens when it's not just the job?" asked Charlie. "When you can't stand on the outside even if you truly want to?"

Charlie's words were like an arrow, homing in on the beating heart that had pulsed through his life and his career ever since Petey had sat beside him in the hospital and confessed to murder.

"Megan." He looked away. His instant answer had come unbidden. Yes, that's what happens. You've seen it in Charlie, when Amita was kidnapped. Desperation, the tipping point where empathy is strained until it vanishes completely. Your own personal cycle of violence.


	6. Chapter 6

**FBI OFFICE, HOYLE/WINTERS SPREE KILLER CASE**

Don planted his palms on the bathroom counter and looked at himself in the mirror. He was pale, his face wet where he'd splashed water in an attempt to collect himself. He heard Megan's voice in his head, laughing and smiling at him like a big brother. His eyes blurred the longer he stared at the mirror, and there she was in a basement, staring through a pane of glass in shock, blood running down the side of her face.

"Help me. Please?" The timid voice interrupted Don's horrified stare.

"Mia? What did they do to you?" She looked back at him silent grief.

She was lying still where she had landed when Rogerson had thrown her down the steps back into the basement, and Don could see blood. Her hands were bound, and slowly Don came to his senses, understanding the plea for help.

"I'm going to die." Her words were simple, and her voice calm. Nobody should have to be that brave.

"No - you're not." He picked at the knots with his fingernails, willing his hands to stop shaking and function. First aid. It's simple first aid, it's an exercise, it's an HRT drill. The internal lies helped him shed the shock and behave like an FBI agent, and his grip steadied, the knots giving way. "You're gonna be just fine, we'll make it out of here together."

"It's not your fault." She managed to roll over onto her side, free of the ropes. "Please remember that, okay?"

Don gulped. God, that was a lot of blood. He looked around, frantic. This was where you called an ambulance, where someone came running up with a first aid kit and helped you start an IV line....but it was a basement. A goddamn basement, and he was chained to the wall. He forced himself to look at the knife wounds, and his examination gave him some hope. "It's not yours either," he said gently. "You're losing a lot of blood, but the bleeding isn't arterial. There's no reason the wounds can't clot on their own, okay? You're not going to die."

Tears formed in her eyes, and she lifted her body up, crawling into his arms. Don gulped, timidly trying to find someplace to put his hands. She was both naked and covered with knife wounds, and it seemed like any touch would be - painful. She gave a weak smile at his hesitation. "I want to be held. Please - if you can handle it."

She was cold, and Don gathered her up carefully and held her. He managed to take one of her hands in his and rub it gently, trying to coax away what he feared was quite literally a deadly chill. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Don't feel so bad," she said, squeezing his hand weakly in return. "I'm not in pain."

Don shook himself loose. This wasn't good, thinking about the past. Not ever, but especially not today.

It only worked for a moment before the guilt crept back, slithering around in his mind despite the lack of invitation.

Megan wouldn't be here in this office if it weren't for me. If I were a normal agent with a normal history, Landau would never have arranged for her to wind up on my team. If I somehow managed to come across as more stable -

I will kill you. I will hunt you down, I will save Megan, and I will kill you, you psychopathic, murdering child molester. And for every mark you leave on my agent, I'll kill you again. You think you know anger, Crystal Hoyle? Wait until you meet me, you two-bit psycho wannabe. Because if you think a mother bear protects her cubs, you've never seen a pissed-off FBI agent.

"You're a boy scout, Eppes."

Don's head snapped up and he collided with the counter, startled out of his skin by the unknown company. Ian Edgarton had entered with ghostly silence and was standing there silently, visibly pleased with the impact of his entry.

"And you're a ninja. Congratulations on startling all the wrong people," snapped Don. "How about you go find Crystal Hoyle instead?"

"Are you gonna let me?" Ian gave him an appraising look. "Because I happen to know someone who might be able to tell us where she is."

"Buck Winters? Not talking," said Don.

Ian swung himself up effortlessly and sat on the long counter, leaning against the mirror with his arms folded. "It's endearing. The whole boy scout routine? I'll be sure to ask for you if I'm ever hauled in. But what you gotta ask yourself is what you're more likely to be able to live with. Reeves dead because you didn't do everything you could to find her, or the fact that a mass murderer suffered a bit in your custody?"

"He doesn't even deserve to be alive," said Don. "I want him to suffer. I want to beat him senseless until he begs to tell me where she is." Ian was quite possibly the only man in the world he would admit that to.

Ian nodded, and raised one eyebrow. "You got the stomach for that, boy scout?"

Don looked away. "No." I couldn't execute Ethan Rogerson, and I'm damn well not going to be able to torture a teenager.

"I do."

"That's the coward's way out," said Don. There was a chill running down his back, coupled with an intense desire to back away from Ian. This man was capable of killing in cold blood from a hundred yards away, it didn't take much of a stretch to imagine what else he was capable of. "I let you do this, I'm just as responsible for what happens. More."

"I'm not suggesting you'll walk away with a merit badge in ethics. I'm giving you a shot at getting your agent back, that's it."

"Might not even be worth it. He could lie to us, or not even know where she is now."

Ian raised his eyebrows and emitted something halfway between a snort and a snicker. "You think it somehow makes a moral difference what the outcome is? It's not gonna get all nice and pretty even if it does work, boy scout. You pretty much have to not give a fuck."

"You're a -" Don stopped, puzzled as to exactly what Ian was.

"Bastard? Sociopath?" Edgarton looked down, and tapped his fingers restlessly on the counter. "I'm the one sniper who'll actually admit in open company that he gets a thrill out of it, I think it's a given I've got a few wires crossed somewhere."

"Last I checked, they didn't let sociopaths run around with FBI credentials," said Don.

The two agents studied each other for a minute, and gave up on mutual understanding. They might as well have been from different planets. Ian slid off the counter with the lightness of a cat. "I do care about the fact that we have an agent in danger. Also? Not a sadist, just a little more at ease with the law of the jungle."

Don strode towards the door. "I'll introduce you."

**FBI OFFICE, CONFIDENTIAL COMMUNICATIONS, PRESENT DAY**

"I couldn't take having - knowing what could happen," said Don. "No way. I was going to get her back if it took burning down LA to do it. She was my agent, just like I was Petey's."

Charlie frowned, and so did Don. Could this whole cycle of violence be that simple? Human beings were too messy and complicated for simple truisms like history repeating itself to apply so neatly. We go beyond this, right?

Right?

Was that what he wanted Charlie to tell him, that the whole thing was some string of coincidences? Was he looking for a figurative pat on the back and the assurance that he wasn't shaped by his past?

Charlie was silent, letting him think, giving him space to breathe. But the question was there, unasked. What does Pete Fox have to do with this?

"Petey was the first agent I was partnered with in the field. I know how it ended, but -" Don fought the grief that came over him every time he was reminded of the shootings, and made himself continue.

"He was the best mentor and the best friend I could have ever asked for. He was a really, really good agent, and he taught well. We had a blast together. Well - I'd been partnered up with Coop by the time the kidnapping happened, but Petey still felt like I was his responsibility, so when I got snatched he took it hard."

"Can you define hard?" asked Charlie.

**HOSPITAL, NEW MEXICO **

"Hey, Donnie." Don wanted his eyes to focus on the source of the voice he instantly identified as belonging to Pete Fox. The relief that sound brought made him almost want to sob, or scream. He wanted desperately to make the same plea he had hours ago. _Get me out of here. Please._

"Donnie?" Petey's voice was gentle and rough, and made something within Don relax at a gut level. God, it was nice to be called that again, to hear genuine caring from another human being.

"Petey." Don's drugged vision finally cooperated as his former partner collapsed in a chair beside the hospital bed. His eyes were bloodshot, his face set in a mask of anxiety and exhaustion. "You 'k?"

Petey's mask crumbled, and he reached for Don's hand. "You look like hell." He was staring at Don, pale to the point where Don began to wonder if the unflappable agent were going to pass out.

"Likewise," said Don. "Look like you seen a ghost. Bad for my morale."

Petey's eyes filled with tears, and he held the chair arm so tightly that his fingers tore the padding from its base. Don's muscles tightened painfully. The doctors had found something lethally wrong with him. Petey was professional FBI. Petey was special forces. He didn't cry just because his former partner happened to get hurt.

Petey didn't seem to pay any heed to his tears. "I - am - looking at a ghost. Donnie -" He slowly realized his shaking grip was hurting not just the chair, but Don as well. He relaxed his grip instantly, but didn't let go, and Don realized Petey wasn't trying to comfort him, but was clinging to him _for _comfort.

"I was on the road from Albuquerque. They - we thought you died in that fire. It was engulfed - they couldn't go in until it was out and Rogerson was gloating that you were in there - chained up. Billy and the other agents were watching it burn and - we thought-"

Petey shook his head, trying to regain control. "If I didn't have another agent in the truck - I think I would have driven into a tree, right then."

"Well, I had to do something to get your attention. Bastard." The humor sounded flat, but it was that or scream out for help. Don looked around the thankfully private hospital room, frantic. When was this going to be really over? The endless pain infecting everything around this case, the physical helplessness, the horrible dual sensations of being abandoned and smothered with sympathy -

I'm alive. I'm alive, and I need you. I need my friend. I need the guy who taught me to cope with everything before, to help me through this. Don didn't know how to say it, so he chose the closest thing he could. "Don't know if I can handle two days here."

This wasn't freedom. This was a kinder and far less painful place to be, but it wasn't rescue. It was strangers questioning him, probing him, sticking needles in him, their caring manner appreciated but not truly felt. It was nausea and humiliation, with chains and ropes replaced by IV lines and oxygen tubes. "How you feel 'bout a kidnapping?"

Petey's grin was weak, and still tickled Don's sense of something seriously wrong. "What, it was so much fun you just have to do it again?" asked Petey.

"You're hiding something. What?" Don demanded. Petey shook his head.

"Spill."

"Nothing you should know about," said Petey. "Nothing anyone should know about."

Don looked away, lost.

Petey sighed, unable to take the broken expression on Don's face. "Donnie, I murdered someone."

Don whipped his head around and tried to sit up. He fell back against the pillow, too heavily drugged to manage it. "You what?"

"I - lost it, okay? I caught Rogerson's accomplice. When he wouldn't tell me where you were, I ran him down with my truck, got out, and - interrogated him."

Don looked away, wrenched to pieces with no way left to cope. Pete Fox, his friend, his mentor, his rock. The stable, good-hearted agent he adored and admired was admitting to torture, murder, and contemplating suicide. "Did you mean any of it?" His voice came out a whisper. "About how to do this job?"

"Every word," said Petey. "You can turn me in. I don't have the nerve to do it myself, but - I'm not asking you to cover for me."

"No. No, not ending this by sending my partner to prison." Don drew a deep breath. "But - please - leave - for now?"

**CONFIDENTIAL COMMUNICATIONS, FBI**

"When Petey found Ethan Rogerson's partner, he wouldn't tell Petey where I was. Petey took the cuffs off and let him run, out across a field. Got in his truck and ran the guy down. Wouldn't call an ambulance until the suspect told him where I was, then called it in and said the suspect was fleeing and happened to run in front of his vehicle."

Charlie's face was twisted in discomfort. "Is that how they found you?"

"No." Don looked away. "Suspect lied. Died two days later in the hospital."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Petey took it hard. I know how his life ended might say otherwise, but he - was a humane person. Don't think he got over that." Don shifted his position. "Until Megan - I didn't comprehend that kind of desperate."

Charlie's expression was everything Petey's hadn't been. Gentle, sad, caring, understanding. "When Amita was taken, I understood."

"Yeah?"

"When we were interviewing Rob Girsh, and we knew he set you up for fraud, there were moments when I truly wanted to hurt that man. He wasn't even violent, or a horrible person, and it felt awful afterwards even though I - all I did was say some things that were pretty cold."

"A lot of violent criminals feel guilt, that's one reason a lot of guys convert to Christianity in prison. The whole finding forgiveness for your sins routine," said Don.

"Don't you think that - maybe being able to forgive yourself is the key?" asked Charlie. "Under all of this is love, right? When you care about someone so much that nothing else matters?"

He tapped his fingers on the desk. "When Petey told me, it was - like a betrayal. This affection I had for him - I trusted him with my life, because he was a kind and decent man. The Don Eppes Megan trusted was a better person than that. I gotta think love doesn't betray people, and it doesn't break them. It's - courage, I think - that I'm chasing here."

Charlie smiled. "I seriously doubt you're lacking in courage, Don."

"You'd be surprised." He smiled back at Charlie. "I'm really not talking about the physical kind."

"I know." Charlie shut down the computer and stood. "Neither was I."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:** _When I first began posting this fic, it was with some serious and continuing doubts about the content of the story, and the portrayal of that content. I had a plot and premise I loved, but I wasn't sure how to tell the story. Thanks to all of your comments, I was able to figure it out. This is not something I could have done on my own, so if you find yourself enjoying the fic, pat yourself on the back! THANK YOU. _

_The first chapters have undergone some re-writing. Specifically, chapter 4 has one scene added, chapter 5 has been vastly re-written and split into two chapters (5 and 6), and chapter 6, while unchanged, has become chapter 7. Chapter 8 is currently being written. _

The present-day portions of the fic are laid out in a linear fashion, but the story of Don's kidnapping and its aftermath are not. That part of the story will unfold as Don works through the current case. Don't worry, we will end up finding out how Rogerson snagged him in the first place.

**FBI OFFICE, CONFIDENTIAL COMMUNICATIONS**

"So - who rescued you?" asked Charlie.

"I did." Don's voice was dark and bitter, and Charlie did a double-take. "That investigation wasn't the FBI's finest hour. Coop was with the entry team when they found me, which was kinda nice. But it was a nice little snafu wrapped up in a case of agent, rescue thyself."

"How?" asked Charlie.

"Lit the place on fire. Got a firefighter shot. They surround the place, drown it with water, and end up in a nice little standoff. FBI gets there, takes down Rogerson, and finds me in the basement."

"You - lit the house on fire with you in it?" Charlie's voice shook.

Don shrugged. "Desperate times." His own voice wasn't doing so good, and he looked down.

**RURAL NEW MEXICO, UNKNOWN RESIDENTIAL BASEMENT**

Don closed his eyes, and kept himself as deeply submerged in the water as possible without drowning. He didn't want to see the flames, if there were any to see. Burning to death....he closed them even more tightly, and tried not to give in to tears. It had always topped his list of worst ways to die, and he'd just done this to himself.

There was a tremendous cracking sound, and bitter smoke in his lungs as something heavy fell on the tub from above. More noise. Gunshots? His eyes flew open in hope, but he closed them again just as rapidly. A blackened beam and a partial sheet of flaming plywood lay across the tub, and beyond that he didn't want to see. He knew he wouldn't actually burn to death: a lung full of toxic, superheated smoke would end him before flames if it came to that. It was hard to breathe; the smoke and the chain left him struggling for air so he let semi-consciousness overtake him, clinging only to enough awareness to keep his head from slipping under the surface of the water.

"Over here. Over here! Quick!" The voice was something from a dream, a friend. There was touch on his shoulder, and his neck, and he recoiled automatically, choosing to focus on that phantom voice. "Don! Don!"

Don. Wrong name, not Donald. He opened his eyes, and saw the letters FBI on a tactical vest. They blurred in front on his eyes and he cried out, desperate not to lose them. He cried out again when he saw a face close to his, and his head slipped under the water. He was pulled out, choking, gagging, still struggling not to cry. The touch of the person holding him seemed different, somehow. Firmer, kinder. He braved a look, hoping against hope, and it was Billy Cooper looking back at him.

"Don! Wake up!" Billy glanced behind him at another agent. "Get medical down here now, and bolt cutters."

"I'm here." Don allowed himself to see, and it filled him with relief and horror and humiliation. He was in the arms of his partner, stark naked and bleeding with a chain locked around his neck. He wanted, more acutely than anything else, to vanish. The horror and pity in the eyes of those agents - he struggled, not intending to quiet plea that came out of his mouth. "Take me out of here." Is this what it feels like to be saved? Or just a horrible dream?

Billy and the second agent lifted him out of the tub, and Don cooperated in silence, cringing inwardly and lacking the will to explain that wasn't what he'd meant.

"Oh dear God." Another voice at the entrance made Don even more self-conscious. The voice was attached to a paramedic bearing a blanket, and Don ended up wrapped in it, lying on the floor, shivering and doggedly ignoring the mechanics of just how it happened.

The shelter helped, as did the removal of the dual threats of drowning and being burned alive. There were charred boards all around, but they were drenched in water and foam, and he went limp on the floor, experiencing relief and sickness all at once.

Don's moment alone in his head was interrupted by fingers on the chain around his neck. They were gentle, and wanted to help, but didn't recognize just how sensitive that area had become. He gritted his teeth and hid his reaction, realizing a moment later that these people weren't sadists. He cried out in protest, and heard Billy yelling at the paramedic who had been fiddling with it. "Back off! If you can't get it off him, leave him alone and wait for the damn bolt cutters."

The paramedic withdrew his hand instantly, giving Don a look of sincere apology, still mixed with that awkward horror that Don shared, that made him wish even more intensely that he could just melt into the floor and be gone. Billy saw it too, and he put a hand on the paramedic's shoulder. "Out. Everyone, out." An agent handed him bolt cutters, and when everyone had left Don braced himself. Billy was as careful as anyone could be, but the cutting of metal was not a gentle process, especially when said metal was wrapped around an already bruised throat. There was a snap and an agonizing jerk, and in an instant he could breathe freely for the first time in days.

He gasped, dragging air into his lungs in massive doses, coughing, throwing up, and gasping some more in the grips of intense misery and relief. He pressed his face into the blanket, and let his head spin at will. It's over. It's over. You made it. You're alive. You're alive.

"Don?" Billy's voice was gentle now, free of the adrenaline and near-panic of their entry. "We've got you. You made it. Not sure exactly how, but you made it, pal."

"Yeah." Don was pleased to find his voice still weak and rough, but far more familiar to him. The world was slowly coming clear again, and with it came both physical pain and emotional relief. The room was a place again, with walls and an exit. Not so much with the ceiling, most of that seemed to have ended up on the floor and in the tub with him.

His partner was sitting beside him, anxious, protective, real. A crisp voice came over the radio. "Billy, how's his breathing?"

"Labored and uneven," replied Billy. "I got the chain off and that helped a bit."

"Okay, we need to come down there and get him to the hospital, pronto."

"No." He sat, ignoring his dangerously spinning head in an effort to escape the latest revulsion, the thought of being strapped helplessly to a stretcher and carried out like some injured pet. "Coming out myself."

He held out his hand, demanding that Billy help him stand. I got myself out of this, I'm damn well going to walk out of this building on my own two feet. He'd have said it out loud if talking didn't hurt so much.

"Are you nuts?" Billy looked at him, and instantly reconsidered. "Okay. But if you pass out, I'm having them come get you."

"Deal." Billy helped him stand, and then backed off, standing just close enough to catch him should he fall. It was slow going, weakness and bare feet making the rubble complicated to contend with, but he made it up the stairs with a feeling of triumph. Take that, you bastard.

"You get him? Heard shots."

"He shot a firefighter, that's how we got alerted. But yeah, Rogerson's in custody, unfortunately not in a body bag where he belongs." Billy raised his eyebrows. "You must have been out for a while."

Don could no longer see; he was on his feet and could move them, one and then another in what he was pretty sure was a walking motion, and he could hear vehicles. There was grass under his feet, cool and wet. His body lurched to the side, and he heard a tingling noise in his ears that had come to signal the moment of passing out. He didn't want to fall, and he flung a hand out. Billy caught him, and the whole world turned black and sideways.

**FBI OFFICE, CONFIDENTIAL COMMUNICATIONS**

"Don? Don?" Don forced his eyes open, and his head up. The room only appeared slightly drunk, with a small wobble here or there. Charlie's eyes weren't horrified, they were gentle and worried. "Were you burned?"

"Nah. Treated for smoke inhalation, that wasn't so bad." He was glad Charlie was there, glad not to feel alone. Maybe this was what he should have done all those years ago, instead of running and hiding.

"It - hurt, that it took that for them to come for me. I kept waiting for them to break down the door, and then - I knew they just couldn't find me, but it felt so personal."

So alone.

He leaned back in his chair, grateful for this safe, familiar little room and the company of someone he'd come to trust deeply. "They tried."

"But they failed." Charlie's voice was understanding of the pain behind that, and he nodded. "And now it's hard for you to let anyone but yourself run cases, because even people you respected and friends who trained you messed up the most critical investigation of your life?"

"Something like that." His voice was rough. Charlie got in a few words what he'd been unable to express for years, and it felt like walking out of a desert into an oasis of comfort and understanding. He closed his eyes, and made a decision.

**ROBIN'S APARTMENT, THAT NIGHT**

Robin caressed the side of Don's face, moved as she so often was by the Don Eppes so few people got to see. He was afraid to speak, but held enough trust and courage to let her see it. The fear that was there in his eyes was something they shared; the knowledge that this bond between them was irreplaceable and easily devastated. "I cherish you," he whispered. "I cherish this." There was a shake in his voice, and he closed his eyes as though bracing himself.

She found his hand with hers and entangled her fingers with his, and a second later they were tangled in each other's arms. It was not a passionate embrace, but one of two people clinging to each other for dear life, trying to reassure each other while terrified. Robin pressed her face against Don's, and felt the unevenness of his breath, the scared pounding of his heart.

That sensation broke her own heart, and somehow eased her fears at the same time, replacing them with an unstoppable drive to protect this, to protect _Don_, at all cost. "I love you. As terrifying as that is, I love you." She pulled back her head and met his eyes directly. "I love _you_. Not some fairy-tale romance version of you as the perfect human being, but you, with all of your flaws and your baggage and that amazing heart that never gives in. Okay?"

He wanted desperately to believe her, but he didn't. The pain and longing in his expression brought tears to her eyes. "Don. I spent the first twenty-seven years of my life looking for the perfect man. I found him, he found me, and we dated for a year."

"Yeah? What was the perfect man like?"

"He was insufferable." Don's face went slack, and a second later a startled smile came unbidden to his face. "It was like walking around with a white knight turned Sunday-school teacher on my shoulder every day, so I could be reminded every second of just how perfect I had to be to deserve his respect. I don't know what world he lived in, but it sure wasn't mine."

The smile was still there, and she reached up, tracing one finger along his raised eyebrow, and then ever so gently along his cheek. Don angled his head, resting his cheek against her hand and letting his eyes half close. "I love _you_," she repeated in a whisper.

He drew in a deep breath, and the eyes looking back at her were some of the most trusting and the most frightened she had ever seen. "Ethan Rogerson. The Swampland Killer case, do you remember that?" She nodded, confused. "I - was one of his victims."

Robin went stiff, looking at him in confusion as she searched her memory. Suddenly her eyes were flooded with tears. "There was a Federal agent. Don - you were that agent?" Don nodded, and Robin drew in her breath in a sob, her heart wrenched to pieces. An instant later they were clinging together as one, and they both knew that they wouldn't be letting go.


	8. Chapter 8

**RIP, Numb3rs. You were (and still are) loved dearly, and will live on in the words and minds of your fans.**

* * *

**FBI OFFICE, BULL PEN**

"Don." Liz waved him over. "Apparently Lisa Trask is out of town, but her paralegal agreed to come in and talk to you." Liz pointed to the interview room. "She's waiting."

Don nodded. "Where we at on the firm's staff? Any of them match Graham's victim profile?"

Liz shook her head. "They have almost thirty employees, plus when you add witnesses, jurors, court staff...that's a lot of interviews and a lot of background checks to run. It'll take days, but I'm being annoying and making sure it doesn't get back-burnered."

"Thanks. Give the names to Charlie too, will ya?" Don entered the interview room and introduced himself. "Special Agent Don Eppes. Thank you for coming by."

The paralegal accepted his outstretched hand with a smile and an engaging flip of her hair. "Beth Wyland, lawyer wannabe. And you're welcome. It's not often I get questioned by the FBI."

Don smiled in return, sizing her up. More like actress wannabe. A breed unique to LA. Beautiful, intelligent, with long blonde hair and a fraction too much makeup. Going about her life with ever-present self-consciousness, wondering in a corner of her mind if the guy at the next table was the director who would discover her and change her life if she made just the right quip at just the right time.

"I'll try to be properly entertaining," said Don dryly.

"And I'll try to answer your questions without violating privilege," retorted Wyland, exactly in her comfort zone.

"Fair enough," said Don, pulling back a chair. "I'm sure you know by now that according to DNA evidence, your client's a serial killer. You have much contact with him?"

The paralegal nodded. "Whiny, high-maintenance crap rolls downhill. I dealt with him all the time. Say - aren't serial killers supposed to be intelligent, charismatic guy-next-door types?"

"Only some," said Don. "It's like alcoholism - can't generalize too much."

Wyland cracked open the bottle of water someone had left for her and took a gulp. It wasn't a nervous act, more like settling in with a water and a good book - and Don was developing a sneaking suspicion that he was the book.

"It just seems so strange, that this guy - killed people, you know? A serial killer? I never thought I'd meet one, let alone be sitting in the office listening to one whine about how the media won't cover his latest attempt to get court-ordered sympathy points."

"Did you get the impression that he wanted infamy?" Don asked. "Wanted to be the center of the media spotlight?"

"He wanted the spotlight, but not in a OJ kind of way. He was all into being the hero, standing up and breaking the cycle of violence, having the courage to confront his abusers, that sort of thing."

Don's attention focused, and he shifted forward in his chair. "What can you tell me about the cycle of violence angle?"

Wyland rolled her eyes, which distracted her momentarily from her fascination with Don's arms. "Some people have the JFK assassination or their colon cancer surgeries, he has the cycle of violence to entertain people with. His pet theory, kept on a leash and watered regularly."

Don chuckled. "What did he feed it?"

"Self-pity." Wyland's eyes sparkled in delight at having elicited a shred of return wit. "He has this totally depressing theory that anyone who is subjected to abuse will become an abuser, and then their victims will abuse more people and so on. He takes a common pattern of behavior and makes it an absolute."

Don watched the seemingly poised woman closely. Flirtation, humor. Was it nervousness? Was she ill at ease in an FBI office, or was she hiding something? "So - he's convinced that nobody involved in this cycle of violence is capable of overcoming their past? Where does that leave him?"

"As the martyr, doomed forever to forego having relationships or children, doing his part to break the tragic cycle." She shrugged. "I guess he forgot to mention the part where he's a sadistic killer."

Her eyes explored the room, and him, fascinated by the one-way window, the cameras, his ID badge. No, this wasn't nervousness. This was an adventure, being cataloged for those boring hours daydreaming in court.

"Did he ever talk about his views on punishment, or revenge?" asked Don. "Anything about his attempt to kill his father?"

"He never talked about the actual shooting. He didn't think it was his fault, though. He didn't think he deserved to be sent to jail for protecting himself from someone who had abused him his whole life, and on that count I happen to agree."

"But?"

"But he thinks the prison system is just part of the cycle. You know, abuser gets sent to jail, kicks the shit out of another inmate or worse, that inmate gets out, beats up his wife, wife shoots him, gets sent to prison, and so on. All things that've been known to happen, but..."

"...so much for redemption? Abandon hope all ye who are assaulted?"

"I always did hear that FBI agents were smart."

Don grinned. The repartee was enough to hold Wyland's attention on the actual conversation, so he decided to stick with it. "My intelligence aside - you don't hold Graham's grey matter in high regard?"

She shrugged, returning the grin. "When it comes to manipulating people, he's a mensa candidate. Other than that - well, he essentially tried to sue himself once. Filed against his father's estate for non economic damages, not realizing that as the sole heir to the estate..."

"Wow. Someone actually filed that?"

"Yep. And Dr. Davis's testimony was essentially that he was a hypochondriac, but Graham thought it proved the point that he was physically and emotionally damaged by his stay in prison. Not so much."

Don wrote on his pad. _Contempt from counsel. If suffering from PTSD, anger issues - resents not being taken seriously._ "Not to be critical, but if you knew the doctor's testimony could have a negative impact on your client's case, don't you have a duty to advise against it?"

"You're treading on privileged ground, Agent Eppes. Sorry."

"I apologize for the inappropriate question," said Don.

She smiled and leaned towards him over the table with a playful flip of her hair. "I don't mind inappropriate questions, Agent Eppes."

Don smiled in return, but he tapped his pen on the pad to focus her. "Graham's specific about his targets. Abducts people who have been targets of spousal or child abuse, and who have seen their abusers jailed. We're doing background checks on everyone at your firm, but you might be able to help make things faster. Any employees who fit that profile?"

"No. Ah - I mean, not that I know of," said Wyland. "That's not something that comes up in casual conversation though, you know?"

Don nodded, declining to correct his flirtatious witness. "What can you tell me about the man he kidnapped? Adim Davis?"

"Dr. Davis? He's a sweetie." A playful pout. "Hot, too. Regrettably, married. Seriously, the last guy in the world anyone would want to kidnap. It'd be like kicking a puppy."

"Yeah, well, what Graham does is a lot worse," said Don. He allowed himself a grin. "Not that I approve of kicking puppies, mind you. How'd he come to know Graham?"

A sweetie. That matched the gentle expression in the photo, and the career choices. He thought back to the man he'd found in the mill. Not much to evaluate there beyond stark, understandable shock. Still, was Davis too much of an innocent? Don scribbled on the pad again. _Davis - wife? Abuser?_

"Graham's a frequent flyer at the urgent care clinic where Dr. Davis works. He goes in whenever he wants an attention fix, and most of the doctors got pretty fed up with him. Davis knew what the deal was, but he figured as screwed up as the complaints were, Graham was suffering and it was his duty to try to help. He testified for free, do you even know how much doctors usually charge?"

"I've seen hospital bills," said Don.

I've seen hospitals.

**GERALD CHAMPION REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER, ALAMOGORDO, NEW MEXICO**

"Who's his emergency contact?"

Don heard the voices in the periphery of his consciousness, and froze in dread. Any minute now he would cough or do something to reveal that he was awake, and there would be no coming to and recovering quietly by himself.

"Uhh, looks like a Alan and Margaret Eppes. Parents."

What's a woman doing here? Mia?

Don sorted through the cloud, and wondered why it was so difficult. Emergency contact?

Soft...everything's soft...hospital? Fire...smoke...dying? No. Coop...FBI...

He remembered that hazy, blessed view of the letters on the tactical vest, and the pieces finally clicked together.

Hospital.

Don raised his hand to his neck and felt no chain, just the soft texture of bandages, and his head spun in relief. He wanted to pass out again, to vanish into this drugged cloud and sleep for days. That would be nice, just to sleep in this soft bed...the cloud was all around him, and it was bliss.

"Okay, go ahead and contact them."

"No," said Don sharply, wrenching himself out of near-sleep with bitter regret. His voice came out weak and rough despite the authority behind his order. Something was interfering, and he tore at the plastic on his face in sudden horror.

"Easy, son. Easy." The voice was kind, and Don froze, now utterly confused. A hand touched his arm and tried to pull it gently away from his face, and he forced his eyes open. The Native American woman beside his bed wore scrubs, a stethoscope, and a motherly expression.

"It's an oxygen mask, you were having some difficulty breathing in the ambulance. Leave it alone, okay? You've got an IV in too, so we don't want you thrashing around." Don finally allowed his arm to be pulled back down to his side.

"That's good, just try to relax. You don't want us to notify your parents?"

_Oh, God no. _

'Hi mom, hi Chuck. How was your week, I was kidnapped by a murderer. My neck? Oh, nothing, that's just from being chained up in the basement. Made it easier for him-'

No. Not having that conversation, not ever.

He didn't feel like moving his head, so he settled for a pointed look at the entrance. "No. Tell them - please - not to release my name?"

The doctor's forehead creased in sympathy, and she leaned forward. "Agent Eppes, you have nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of. From what those men told me, you are a hero. You saved the lives of ten children, two adults, your partner...you rescued yourself from a serial killer. If you were my son, I would be so incredibly proud of you. I would cry for a week, but I would be so proud to know what you did."

No.

She sighed at the stubborn expression. "You have a nice family? They love you?"

Don nodded with his eyes.

"If you had died, which you came so close to, they would have mourned you for years. Why don't you allow them to know how lucky they are to still have you in their lives?"

Don struggled with that, and with the caring in the doctor's words. Speaking hurt, and thinking about this hurt, and he didn't want to get it wrong. "If they know - want something to stay - like it was before. Gonna need that."

She sighed, and very carefully wrapped an ID band around his wrist, sneaking in a soft pat on the back of his hand. "I'm a mother, and I would want to know. But you are very stubborn and very smart, so I will listen to you."

**FBI OFFICE, INTERVIEW ROOM**

Don forced his thoughts back to the present. "Any animosity between them during trial, or indication that he blamed Dr. Davis for the fact that he lost?"

"No..." Wyland bit her lower lip, thinking. "Adim wasn't quite himself the day of the trial."

"How so?" asked Don.

"He's normally very - I don't know exactly, open, I guess. He doesn't hide his feelings. But that day he was reserved. Distant might be a good way of putting it."

"You ask what was wrong?"

"He blew me off. Muttered something and walked away. Also unusual," said Wyland.

_Scared at trial?_ Don scribbled a third note on his list. "What about his interactions with Graham, do you think it's possible he'd threatened Davis?"

"I - I really don't think so..." Wyland frowned and opted not to commit to that any further.

"Did Graham have any quirks or habits that might help us find him? Favorite restaurants, best friends, addiction to art gallery openings..."

Wyland's face lit up and she practically bounced forward in her chair. "He didn't have friends or family that I know of, but he collects rare orchids. Won't shut up about them, either."

"Huh." Don jotted that down too. "Anything else?"

"He likes pizza?" she suggested hopefully.

Don stood. "Okay. That's it for now. Thanks for your help."

Wyland handed him her card. "Call me any time if you have any more questions. And I wouldn't object to a really hot FBI agent using that for personal purposes and calling me up for a date."

Don took it, smiling. "I'm taken. But also flattered. You have a good day, all right?"

"You too, agent." She grinned, and impulsively hugged him. It was a lighthearted move, and Don grinned as he patted her on the back.

**FBI OFFICE, OBSERVATION BOOTH**

"Hey, boss," said Colby when Don entered. "Would it kill you, just once every so often, to let me question the really hot, flirty witnesses with a thing for FBI agents?"

Don grinned. "Hey, don't even try to convince me you aren't hit on at least once a week."

"Yep, I am," admitted Colby. "The last one was a three-hundred-pound waitress with a glass eye. She thought I was cute."

"Okay. I'll try to keep your love life foremost in my mind during all serial homicide investigations," snarked Don.

"Much appreciated," said Colby. "Can I have kidnapping and bank robbery too? Please dad?"

"Sure," said Don. The cheeky grin on Colby's face nearly cracked him up. "But only if you take out the trash and run down these leads first."

"You got yourself a deal," said Colby. "What's on the to-do list?"

Don glanced at his pad. "I want to know if there's any chance Davis is an abuser. Talk to his wife, patients, neighbors, look for police calls, you know the drill. Also, find out where orchid collectors do their shopping and throw out a net for him there."

"Got it. Is it just me, or was she dying to pull out her phone and Tweet that she was being questioned by the FBI?"

Don waved him out with a roll of his eyes, and they joined the others in the war room. "All right, gang. It's starting to look like Graham's addicted to being the focus of attention and pity. He tries to get it in court, and he's a frequent flyer at the hospital."

Nikki arched her eyebrows. "So...what you're saying is the serial killer is an attention whore. Nice."

David looked skeptical. "If that's the case, shouldn't he be sending clues to the media and dropping off bodies in city parks?"

"My guess is he wants sympathy, not infamy," said Don. "He just lost his main outlets. There's nobody left to sue or file charges against, and he can't go to the urgent care clinic because they're looking for him. He's got to go elsewhere or escalate. We need to get flyers out to every free clinic and outreach group in the state, and domestic violence support groups in case he goes fishing there."

"That's a pretty wide net," commented Nikki.

"You got a way to narrow it down, I'm all ears," said Don.

"I do," said Colby. "It's name is Charlie."

"My next stop," said Don.


	9. Chapter 9

_I apologize for the long posting delay. I've actually written a lot lately, it's just been in the wrong sequence for posting - danged muse! Hope you enjoy the latest chapter :)_

**CHARLIE'S OFFICE, CAL SCI**

Charlie looked up when he heard footsteps at the entrance, and saw Don. So much affected him now when he saw his brother. Love. Grief. Awe. Hurt. Guilt. And again, love.

Don stopped, aware of the look. "Hey, buddy..."

Charlie felt frozen, and in the same space of time he felt a deep sense of apology for his reaction and for the effect it must have on his brother. But still, he was frozen. There was so much dignity contained in the simple act of Don's standing there in his office. He felt tears in his eyes, and tried with everything he had to stop them.

"Don, I'm so sorry."

Oh, God, I'm sorry. I know what this looks like; it looks like everything you dread. He tried to find the words to explain everything his emotions were not, but he couldn't. "I admire you so much."

Don turned sideways, with that coiled tension that emerged when he felt trapped in a situation. Charlie braced himself for what happened next, the inevitable harsh order or sarcastic comment followed by the pissed-off departure. In this case, he deserved it. He was still frozen, his eyes unable to move from Don. Please just yell at me, so that I know we can recover from this, and that things can return to normal. Please tell me this won't be the last time you come and stand in my office.

"I'm sorry." It was the only thing Charlie could think of to say.

Don didn't move, didn't look at him. For seconds, for minutes, maybe eons, both brothers were motionless as though carved in wax. Charlie stopped thinking. He stopped feeling. He wondered if he was even there.

Don raised his head.

Slowly, he turned towards Charlie.

His eyes traveled up, and locked on to his brother. There was no expression there yet. Keen intelligence, and the observation skills of a raptor, but nothing revealing emotion. Charlie found himself staring back, unable to look away from the gaze that was pinning him in place and examining every nuance of breath, of feeling, of thought. He didn't even blink.

From any other person, that exploration would have been excruciating. He would have looked away. But this wasn't threatening. This wasn't judgmental. Those eyes belonged to someone he instinctively trusted to examine his soul, so he simply stood there and looked back.

It was one of the single most reassuring things Charlie had experienced. He knew he'd witnessed this gaze before, but it had never been directed at him, certainly not with this intensity.

Don blinked, and when his eyes opened again there was expression there. Caring, understanding, even apology. "We'll make it, okay?"

Charlie gulped. "Okay."

Don turned away again, closing the door to Charlie's office and slowly taking a seat opposite him. He was deep in thought, but not lost there.

"Look - I'm not gonna try to minimize what happened to me, or how shattering it was, or anything like that, because that's a disservice I won't do to anyone who's suffered through it. But - it's just not that uncommon. Serial killers and stranger abductions are pretty rare, so I guess that makes what happened to me shocking, but it just isn't."

"How can you say that?" asked Charlie. He was startled by the direct launch into matters he'd been planning to avoid, and he almost threw up a hand to stop Don. He wanted to say that it was okay, that Don didn't have to re-live this for his sake, that it felt awful to be the one bringing this to the forefront of his mind every time they saw each other. He wanted to say that he understood now why Don had hidden this. He wanted to tell Don that it was okay, that he could keep his secrets.

But more than that, he wanted Don to keep talking. He wanted to know and understand, and he wanted to be trusted.

"Well - there was this evidence lab tech I used to know in Albuquerque - awesome guy. Couldn't be an agent because -" Don gestured at his ears "- his hearing was all messed up. Dad used to take him out back of the house and shoot at him with a handgun when he'd come home from school late or whatever. Guy was in his late teens before he believed that wasn't normal, said he always figured it was 'cause his dad seemed sorry the couple times a bullet grazed him."

"Another woman I knew, husband beat her all the time. Seven months pregnant, the guy punches her in the stomach until she miscarries, then convinces her she's to blame for the baby's death. Two years later she finally gets out, but he's brainwashed her for so many years she still feels guilty for leaving him."

Charlie sighed. "I know these things happen..."

"All the time, buddy," said Don softly. He sighed and rubbed his face. "I interviewed a woman last week, teller at a bank that was robbed. Smart lady, sweet, nervous. We're talking, and I noticed the top button of her shirt came loose and her neck was covered with scars. Cigarette burns. I asked her about it, and she told me when she was a baby and coming up as a child, her mom would put cigarettes out on her to try to get her to stop crying. She got hooked on the endorphin rush and it turned into this whole maternal childhood comfort thing for her, so when she got older she started doing it to herself. Took a lot of guilt and pain before she saw a therapist and managed to break the habit."

Charlie looked down, unsure of Don's point but knowing he had one. "Thing is, I'd a million times rather go through what I did at the hands of a stranger I can hate than even think about dad doing it to me."

Charlie's eyes squeezed shut, and Don reached across the desk and covered Charlie's hand with his own. "We are so lucky. I can say that about myself without even blinking, because I can imagine the agony of someone I was wired to love and trust doing that, and it makes me just - so grateful for our family. We had our problems, you and I, but they never -"

"Yeah," said Charlie, his voice uneven. "I get it." He twisted his hand around and held onto Don's with everything he had.

After a moment, Don pulled away and leaned back in the chair, absorbed in reflection and tracing patterns of shadows cast by leaves outside Charlie's window. Shadows and patterns. Those leaves made a surprisingly decent metaphor for his life right now, and he watched them, struck by the beauty of the dancing shapes. His own haunted and trapped him, but did they have to? Could he simply watch them and see the freedom and randomness in those patterns?

**EPPES RESIDENCE, LIVING ROOM**

Amita looked very alone on the couch, and Alan let his footsteps slow to a halt. Did she feel as abandoned as she looked? Was she feeling as forsaken as him, no matter how much he reminded himself that he was a grown - well, perhaps advanced beyond grown - man, and his sons were independent, grown men he was fortunate enough to still have in his life.

"Haven't seen the boys around much," he said finally.

Amita glanced around the house. Yes, they were alone. "I think they've been busy on a case."

Alan walked to a chair and sat down, discomforted by the empty quiet. The television wasn't even on. "I think I offended Donnie. Some comments about his - work came out wrong."

Amita set her laptop aside and closed it, very deliberately. "Charlie and I don't keep secrets. We both do classified work, and when one of us can't know what the other is working on... we don't discuss it. But - emotions can't be classified. We don't hide what might be bothering us, just the physical details. He's - hiding now." The hurt look she gave Alan nearly broke his heart. "Something's bothering him, so much. But he won't even look me in the eyes, and it seems to hurt him to try."

"At least he tries," said Alan dryly.

He wasn't prepared for the flash of anger in Amita's eyes. "Don tries. He's a sweetie under it all, you know that, right?"

"I've known that since the first time that little boy fell asleep in my arms," retorted Alan, not angry, but his own emotions loosened somewhat by Amita's unguarded outburst. "But the FBI hasn't done him any favors, and neither have I."

"Look - Alan. I know as a father you might look at Don, or Charlie, and see what you wish for them. But they're both wonderful men. Don't force yourself into regrets, all right?"

Alan smiled softly. "Look who's grown wise beyond her years."

"Not wise enough to know how to help them. Or - to not get my feelings hurt. I walked in yesterday, into an empty classroom. Charlie and Don were talking, and the second they saw me it was as though - I pressed a mute button on a horror film."

Alan closed his eyes, thinking and remembering. "I've - seen Donnie like this before." He opened them again, but the room still seemed dark and empty. "When he was in Albuquerque the first time. It was a bad time for him."


	10. Chapter 10

_THANK YOU for the thoughtful and wonderful reviews! *huggles readers*_

**EPPES RESIDENCE**

Alan finally jerked the covers back and stood, fuming while he jerked a shirt around his shoulders. Between the raucous laughter, the television, and the whooping shouts, it sounded like a team of drunken baboons had invaded his living room, and he knew exactly who those baboons were.

He emerged down the stairs just in time to see a bowl of popcorn thrown in Don's direction. He dodged, and it collided with the window in a splintering crash. Don stumbled, sending soda over him and the floor.

Billy Cooper laughed in glee. "That's what you get for not watching this with me."

"You broke that..." said Don, pointing at the window. His worried expression cracked and he started laughing hysterically.

"What's the matter, daddy gonna ground you?" Cooper was sopping drunk, and his affectionate humor had a mean edge to it that Don didn't miss. Alan didn't miss the holstered gun lying casually on the end table surrounded by popcorn. Don was still wearing his, a fact that both reassured him and made his skin crawl.

Alan picked up an object on the floor and looked at it lying in his hand, repulsed. It was an FBI badge, something that should indicate a position held with honor and responsibility. He flicked off the popcorn and addressed its owner, unable to keep the contempt from his voice. "So this is how you keep the public's trust, and you're surprised when the waters don't part for you?" He advanced towards Cooper and threw the badge in his lap.

Cooper rolled his eyes. "Easy, pops."

Alan grabbed the gun off the end table, careful to keep it pointed at the ground. "You leave a deadly weapon lying around my house -" He was interrupted by a burly FBI agent moving at close to the speed of light. Cooper threw himself at Alan and jerked the gun out of his grasp with a brutal shove that sent Alan staggering backwards, almost losing his feet.

Don was the one who caught him, moving even faster than his drunken partner. Alan fell into the protective grip of his son, and for an instant the fury cooled. The irritated scowl on Billy Cooper's face as he holstered the weapon re-ignited it. He wrenched himself out of Don's arms and grabbed his shirt. "Listen to me, you overgrown thug -"

Billy drew back his fist and aimed it at Alan's face, and Alan stopped mid-sentence, frozen in place. In slow motion, Don appeared from the side.

"Don't!" yelled Don, his voice almost a scream. "Just don't! Back off!" He seemed to be struggling to breathe, and the frantic undercurrent in his eyes hurt Alan physically.

"Yeah," said Billy Cooper, his voice low with menace. "Back off."

Alan turned towards the agent, filled with fury. "Don't you ever tell me what to do. You pack your bags and you get out of my house." Billy took a half-step back, intimidated by the unexpected, absolute force behind Alan's words.

"Dad?" Don blinked, and blinked again as though to clear his head. He looked around, and Alan wondered for a split second if he even knew where he was.

"Outside. Come on." Alan didn't know if Don would actually follow, but he did, walking behind him without a word. When they were well out of earshot of his son's drunken partner, they stopped. "This isn't you, Donnie. And if it is you now, I want nothing to do with it."

Don spun around to face Alan so hard and fast that for a split second, he backed away from his own son for the first time in his life. Don was like a coiled spring, barely contained. "Are you going to throw me out? Go ahead. Play the hardass 'not in my house' card, it's not like I need to be here."

The angry reply was on the tip of Alan's tongue when he caught the underlying tension of that spring. Don was braced for assault, and there was something - frightened - there. Something hurt hidden under the anger. "No." Alan's voice came out rough, but he saw that desperate tension ease in his son's face. "No. You are always welcome in this home, no matter the circumstances. Always, do you hear me?"

Don turned away, hiding his face, but Alan could see his shoulders slump slightly and knew it was relief. "Donnie. We love you. I'll see you in the morning."

**EPPES RESIDENCE, MASTER BEDROOM**

Margaret was awake, and anxious. Alan joined her, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Something's wrong," said Margaret.

Alan nodded. "When I took him outside, he was belligerent, but he seemed - as though underneath, he was very frightened. Maybe even hurt. He was challenging me to throw him out."

"You didn't -"

"Of course not." He looked at Margaret, troubled. "What do you think of this Billy Cooper character?"

"I don't like him. But Donnie's always been good at resisting peer pressure, I don't think he'd let a testosterone-charged frat boy change who he is," said Margaret.

Alan sighed. "If they were still kids, I'd swear Donnie was being bullied, as unlikely as that is. And I'd have Billy and his parents answering some hard questions. He was never like this, not once, before they got assigned to each other."

Margaret closed her eyes. "I've been going around and around with myself, wondering if I should tell you this, or if I should ask him about it, or if I should just realize I'm not mom any more and he's not my little boy, - but..."

Alan squeezed her hand. "They'll always be our little boys. And you're still mom, I'm still dad. I don't think we can ever make that change."

"No." She leaned against him for reassurance. "The other day, he had a bunch of dirty laundry sticking out of his case, and I thought I would wash it for him. When I pulled it out, I found drugs in his bag." She felt Alan stiffen in shock, and added, "- legal ones. Prescriptions. They were his, and nothing narcotic."

Alan started breathing again, just barely. "What for?"

"I didn't recognize them all. Some of them were from a medical doctor, and one said it was for pain. The ones I know were prescribed by a psychiatrist. An antidepressant, anxiety medication, and sleeping pills."

It was Alan's turn to close his eyes. "_Anxiety_?"

"The same drug that doctor tried to put Charlie on when he was in high school."

Alan stood abruptly, paced across the bedroom, and came to rest staring at a photo of the four of them after a baseball game. Don was in his Rangers uniform, grinning, filled with exuberant delight. His whole bearing exuded playful triumph, all qualities which were utterly lacking in the hard-edged, reserved young man downstairs. "I knew we never should have let him join the FBI. You've seen cops, how they turn cynical and hard. They stop caring and they stop trusting, and it's happened to him."

"He's not a cop, sweetie. He's an FBI agent, it's different."

"Yeah." The sarcasm wasn't even contained in that bitter word. "Same attitude, more resources and larger egos."

"He's a good person, Alan. Isn't that what we need, more good people in positions of power and authority?"

"If it destroys them?"

"He hasn't been destroyed!" She stood up herself, a mother rallying to her cub. "He's here. You said it yourself, he's scared. This is as close as that boy will ever get to begging us to be there for him. If someone or something has betrayed him or hurt him, we need to be the ones he can turn to."

**FBI OFFICE, WAR ROOM**

"Adim Davis seems to be as clean as they come," said Nikki. "Hell, I'd marry the guy. His wife's out of town, but according to neighbors, co-workers, police records - there's nothing that says abuse. She's an anesthesiologist who used to work with him when they were with the MSF."

"MSF?" asked Liz.

"Medicins Sans Frontiers - it's the real name of Doctors Without Borders. Unless you think the do-gooder squad has anything to do with a fugitive serial killer, I vote random psycho attack," said Nikki.

Colby passed over a medical examiner's report to Don. "Check this out. Graham took Davis to a lumber mill. Not an obvious choice of evil torturing lair, but a smart one. Got me thinking where he might have held his previous victims before he killed them. I haven't had a chance to go over all the records yet, but there were traces of industrial chemicals on the last victim's body, and he had traces of aerosolized paint in his lungs."

Don flipped through it. "Mills paint things?"

"No, but it points to a possible pattern of industrial hideouts. If I look at some more of the past victims..."

"Run it down," said Don, handing the report back. "We any closer to getting Davis or Lisa Trask in to talk to us?"

"Davis still won't talk to anyone, certainly not us. Lisa Trask got back to LA this morning and she's coming in first thing tomorrow," said David.

"Okay," said Don. "What about the employees at the law firm, any luck with the background checks?"

Liz nodded. "Sort of. Trask had an abusive boyfriend in high school. No trial, but he put her in the hospital and the police tried to made a case. She wouldn't cooperate."

Don frowned. "She was Graham's lawyer, she might have confided in him. Let's not take chances. Put her under tight surveillance, but have them lay low. If Graham tries to grab her, we want to catch him in the act. Don't want him spotting an LAPD unit and taking off."

**EPPES RESIDENCE, KOI POND**

"Charlie, what's the worst thing that's ever happened to you?" asked Don, dangling a finger in the water. One of the pond's residents rose to the surface and pecked at it, prying an amused twinkle from his eyes.

Charlie answered without hesitation, but there was a crack in his voice. "Mom dying."

Don inclined his head in an almost imperceptible nod, his eyes serious. "Besides that."

"Amita's kidnapping." Charlie looked away and stuck his own hand in the pool, holding a fish pellet between his fingers.

Don shook his head, and spoke gently. "No, Charlie. I mean what's the worst thing that's ever been done to you, personally. Not someone else."

Charlie looked down, his posture taking on an air of misery. "Do you really want to know?" His voice was sizes smaller than usual. "I don't think you want to know about that."

"Yes, I do," said Don, worried.

"It was when we were in school. When - we were kids. Five students on your baseball team beat me up, threw me into a dumpster, and locked me inside. I - screamed so loudly. I remember this sense of complete and utter terror, because I was afraid nobody was going to find me, that I was going to die in there or get dropped in some landfill." Charlie wouldn't look at him.

"How did you get out?" asked Don.

"You saved me." Charlie's eyes were filled with pain. "You came looking for me, and you got me out. Then you told me I smelled like rotten eggs, and that it was my fault. You said that people were going to keep ganging up on me until I learned to fight back."

"Charlie..." Don felt his stomach tighten in remorse. Those had been bad times for his younger brother, but he had no idea they'd made it to Charlie's worst experiences of all time list. "God, I don't even remember that."

Charlie's voice sounded like someone was strangling him, but he forged ahead. "I - never told you or dad how badly I was hurt. We were just kids, but I did fight back. I fought, and when they got me down they kicked me until they got bored. I never knew how you expected me to be able to fight six or seven people at once, it's impossible. When you were walking me home from school I was in so much pain I could hardly move. I went up to my room and - I was seriously afraid I was going to die."

"I'm sorry. I am so sorry," said Don. He drew a deep breath. "My point was going to be that - we can live through things that hurt us so badly we don't even want to survive, and go on to be normal people with good lives." He gave Charlie a remorseful glance. "I think the one I ended up making was that your big brother's an ass."

Charlie's laugh was a brave but hollow effort. Don walked up beside Charlie, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him against his side in a firm hug. "This is what I should have done. And I should have told you that no matter what, even when we were kids, I was always going to do everything in my power to protect you."

Charlie didn't fight it, a sure sign to Don of just how stressed he was. None the less, he protested. "I'm fine! In the grand scheme of things, that was nothing. Kids get bullied, families fight... I know that now."

Don nodded. "That's pretty much how I feel about what happened to me." Don rubbed Charlie's arm, and felt him relax timidly against his side. "If you read anything about history, or deal with modern day crime, or terrorism..." his voice drifted off for a minute. "These things happen, you know? And maybe I had a really awful few days, but what other people have been through...mine doesn't compare. Not even close."

Charlie nodded his head in a tiny motion. "We have truly gifted lives."

"Yeah." Don heard the silent "but" in Charlie's statement a moment too late.

"It took me more than three years to stop having nightmares about being trapped in dumpsters, and dump trucks. In my sleep I would wake up buried alive in a landfill and try to climb out while the New York Mets attacked me with baseball bats. Whenever it was my turn to take out the trash, I would end up retching into the bushes if it smelled a certain way." He gave Don a knowing look. "How long did it take you -"

Don's phone rang and he snatched at it, thankful for the diversion. He supposed it was too much to expect, that Charlie and that meticulous brain of his would be pawned off with a simple rationalization or twenty. But what did he want to hear? That I suffered more than I could have imagined it was possible for a human being to live through? That it almost destroyed me? That it nearly ruined my career? That it made me someone worse, that I feel compassion too deeply or not at all -

"Eppes."

"Hey, Don." Don recognized David's voice.

"What's up?" He watched the brightly colored fish swimming at his feet, trying to concentrate on David's words.

"Ahh, you're not going to believe this, but...it looks like Lisa Trask has been kidnapped."

"Wha - what happened to the surveillance?" Don's first instinct was fury, and it jolted him out of his self-absorbed trance. If LAPD had followed letting Graham escape the mill with allowing him to kidnap someone from under their noses-

"They couldn't find anyone to surveil. That's how we found out."

Don bit his lower lip and clenched the phone tightly. "Be right there."


	11. Chapter 11

**CORNER OF ALTAMONT & ISABEL, CYPRESS PARK, LOS ANGELES**

Walker jerked his head in the direction of a squad car. "Witness is in back besmirching the name of 40-year-old soccer moms everywhere. Tried to stop the kidnapping by shooting up the car when it was fleeing, ended up putting rounds into houses instead."

Don winced. "Hurt anyone?"

"Nope."

"Okay." Don approached the parked car. The look the suspect gave him when he paused with his hand on the door was one of utter turmoil; anger, fear, shame, any number of emotions fighting for dominance and resulting in a wide-eyed, almost blank stare. He opened the door, pulling the handle up with a soft click so as not to grate on frayed nerves. Don slid in, closing the door of the uncomfortably warm car behind him. "Don Eppes, FBI."

"Kate Wiseman, completely fucked," she retorted, trying to blink a tendril of curly brow hair out of her eye. The tough response might have been impressive, if not for the trembling of her arms. She followed Don's gaze and gulped, some of the raw emotion escaping when she realized Don wasn't fooled.

Don noticed her wince as she shifted uncomfortably in the seat, and the furrowed line across her forehead. "Are the cuffs hurting you?" He suspected that she'd been treated more than a little roughly, and that there was a reason the air conditioning was trickling out barely enough chill to keep the vehicle from being dangerously, inhumanely hot. The responding LAPD officers wanted her scared out of her mind.

After a moment's hesitation in which she challenged him with a healthy glare, she nodded. "Bad cop told me to suck it up. I suppose this is where the good cop acts all concerned?"

Don chuckled. "We don't play that game as much as you might think, and I'm more likely to be playing bad cop. Turn around."

Don removed the handcuffs. She was trembling, her body betraying the shock and fear she was trying so desperately to hide. Don touched her lightly on the side of the arm, and she froze in that spot with her back to him, drawing in several shaky breaths and plainly welcoming Don's touch. Don glanced outside to the corner where Lieutenant Walker was standing. Walker was an old-school cop with little sympathy for bad guys, and he didn't hesitate to play rough. But he wasn't cruel, especially not to terrified female witnesses.

Don smiled to himself and patted Wiseman reassuringly. Walker didn't want to charge her. He wanted to scare her to death, and let Don walk her out of there. When she faced him again, it was with relief and respect plainly written on her face.

"I'm a New Yorker. I was ten blocks away when the planes hit. I took the class and got my concealed carry permit a week after that. Flash forward a pretty short decade or so, I'm working in LA. Call me racist if you like, but I see a Middle Eastern guy with a steel razor-looking thing shove a screaming woman into a car - it pretty much triggers every bit of rage and freaked-out-ness I've got. I lost my cool and I took a shot at that car, okay? I just couldn't hear that scream and not do anything."

Don nodded. "Understood." He meant it. Without the constant practice and discipline of FBI training, without the countless tactical exercises stressing impulse control under the worst of circumstances, it could easily have been him.

Wiseman closed her eyes in relief. Don left her alone for a moment before speaking. "We think the kidnapping you witnessed may have something to do with a series of serial homicides. My concern is with that, not the fact that you discharged your weapon."

"Okay." She opened her eyes.

"Can you describe what you saw?"

"I - heard screaming. Someone - a woman - calling for help. I ran around the corner and there's this guy trying to push a woman into the back of a Jeep. He was holding her hair - holding her head back, and there's blood running down her neck. He threatens her with this metal - knife - thing again, she gets in, and I'm yelling at him to stop."

Something queasy and long-forgotten danced into Don's memory. A flicker of resentment aimed directly at Charlie was the agent's first reaction, but he soon corrected himself. Not forgotten. Stored neatly on a shelf alongside the many experiences of a life not filled with the most pleasant of memories, kept as evidence for future use only if needed. Did he need it now?

* * *

**ELEPHANT BUTTE STATE PARK, NEW MEXICO**

Don heard a scream in the distance, and froze. It sounded like the direction of the lake, where Billy had headed. "Coop?"

Cooper answered quietly into his radio. "Boat docks. Come my way. I'm approaching under cover. Hostages."

"Copy," said Don, breaking into a jog. He switched channels. "Control, we may have hostages at the boat dock. Monitor tac 3 and get backup here asap."

More noise led Don towards the lake, and he silently cursed the distance. There was minimal underbrush, but fallen branches and protruding roots forced him to choose his footing with care. It forced him to manage his speed so that he wouldn't be too winded to shoot accurately when he arrived at the scene; if he and Billy were going to end up doing a hostage rescue alone, a state park boat dock was a horrible place for it.

Minimal cover, moving footing, target who didn't hesitate to kill and was already sentenced to the death penalty. Don's mind sharpened, already piecing together scenarios. All of them were lethal for Rogerson, and he checked his gun without stopping.

The radio keyed up again. "He killed - he's got a scalpel and a gun. Ten children, four adult hostages. Killed one adult with cuts to the wrists and throat."

Don felt momentarily queasy as the screaming he'd heard became connected to the actions that caused them. Within seconds, the adrenaline and controlled excitement took control again. The time for emotion was later; right now, they got to do what they lived for. A fugitive was killing people, and he got to stop the bastard.

"He's - SHIT." There was another agonized scream, and the transmission cut off. "I'm taking him out, NOW."

Don accelerated his pace to a flat-out run. "Stand by! Wait for me." He didn't like the adrenaline in Billy's voice; if he'd ever sounded like that Petey would have kicked his ass with sound lecture on self-control. Working with his new partner was like riding around with an enthusiastic puppy stuffed with nitroglycerine, and it was every bit as endearing and nerve-wracking.

Shouts. Orders. Gunshots. More screaming. Don slid to a halt and brought his binoculars up the instant he reached the end of the cover at the shore of the lake, not far from the dock. Fortunately for his purposes, the undergrowth went from nonexistent to thick along the water's edge as plant life took advantage of the moisture lapping at its roots, and he was able to remain hidden.

He blinked, hoping his eyes were tricking him. They weren't. The hostages, sitting on the dock with their hands up, were mostly children with a scattering of what looked like camp counselors. One of the few adults was the murder victim; easy enough to spot by the spreading blood. The two facts he least wanted to contend with were the swaying of the dock rendering it impossible to get off an accurate shot, and that kneeling in front of Rogerson with a gun to his head was Billy Cooper.

Don switched channels again so that Rogerson wouldn't overhear the transmission, and briefed the dispatcher. The lack of instructions he got from control in return was hardly reassuring.

"Ohhhhhh, fed, come out come out wherever you are..." The mocking singsong was aimed in the wrong direction, at least. Don searched the entire scene with his eyes, waiting for what was nagging at the back of his mind to come clear.

The boat. It's rocking wrong. Rogerson couldn't take Coop, not with some element of surprise. No way in hell he just walked up and traded himself off to a killer, either. He looked at the boat again. There was nothing, no movement visible, no more rocking now.

There was a scalpel in Rogerson's other hand, and he used it to almost casually cut a doodle on Billy Cooper's neck. With the aid of the binoculars, Don was able to see the lines of blood well up and the unblinking expression of his partner's face. The thing must be too sharp to hurt much, thank God.

Yeah, and one wrong move of that dock and it goes into an artery, or any number of important bits of anatomy in his neck.

He set the binoculars aside and started removing his shirt, his boots, belt. Anything that would get in the way of swimming except his gun. And his badge. The courts might forgive his not carrying it under the circumstances, but chances were he was about to kill two people in front of a bunch of already traumatized schoolchildren, and he wanted to at least have a way to instantly identify himself as a good guy rather than the more powerful, even more terrifying evil he would otherwise appear to be. He called in his plan on the radio and reluctantly added it to the pile.

Don gritted his teeth when he slipped into the cold water; it wasn't a shock he'd braced himself against. Within a few seconds it became a welcome relief from the oven-like heat he'd been jogging through, and he swam towards the dock trying to disturb the water as little as possible. Rogerson had a partner on that boat lying in wait. Had to, it was the only conceivable way for Coop to have ended up at gunpoint.

Coop, you impulsive bastard. Two bloody seconds to think tactically instead of assuming what you saw was what you got, and you wouldn't have a damn scalpel buried in your neck about two millimeters away from your carotid artery.


	12. Chapter 12

**LAW OFFICE OF SIDMARK AND TRASK**

"She just got into the car with him, I didn't think anything of it. Are you sure she's really been kidnapped?" Beth Wyland, the paralegal Don had questioned at the FBI, was rattled. From the suspicious look she was giving Colby, she suspected a prank, and Colby had to wonder exactly how much spare time she thought the FBI had.

"Pretty sure," he said mildly. "Got into the car with whom?" From the looks of the posh but very quiet and small office suite, the law firm of Sidmark and Trask had more spare time than it probably would have liked. Reasonable enough to extrapolate that to an FBI that had time to play elaborate pranks, if Colby was feeling extraordinarily generous with his definition of 'reasonable."

Wyland looked startled to find the agent couldn't read her mind. "Adim. Doctor Davis."

David and Colby exchanged 'what the hell' looks. "Calvin Graham" was the answer they'd been expecting, with "some shady guy with a gun" as second runner-up. "Humanitarian torture victim" hadn't even begun to make the list.

"Ah -" Colby stopped himself from asking "Are you sure," given that he'd just been internally mocking Wyland for asking that question. "Where was this?"

"In the parking structure. Ever since we learned about Cal, we've been walking to our cars in groups." She gave Colby a playful look. "We call them the cougar packs."

Colby frowned. "You aren't old enough to be a cougar." And then he slapped himself inside. This has what, exactly, to do with the case?

"Awwww." Wyland smiled and patted him on the arm. "Okay, you're right. But we thought it was funny."

Colby didn't enjoy the pat. It was affectionate, like something you'd do to a puppy. He would have far preferred a flirty slap, or nothing at all. His pride stinging, he asked the next question. "Had they arranged to meet?"

"I don't think so. His Jeep was parked next to Lisa's car, and he got out and asked her if she'd get coffee with him before going home. He said something was bothering him about the Graham case, and she said yes, of course. She probably wanted to ask him what it was like being kidnapped." Wyland blinked. "Wow - so - I guess she knows the answer now."

A hopeful expression crossed her face. "Maybe they're having an affair. A hot, tragic medical doctor kidnaps a bored suburban lawyer, and -"

Colby's turn to blink. People could have some odd reactions to the shock of coming into contact with violent crime, but this was the first time one had tried to turn it into a Harlequin romance novel. "You know them both. Does that seem likely to you?"

The paralegal sat down heavily in a nearby chair and rubbed her eyes. "No." Her voice was subdued, and for the first time reflected genuine, human worry. "I don't think he would hurt her. He seems like a very gentle guy."

"I hope he won't," said Colby. "My fear is that he might be working for Graham."

Wyland stared. "No. No way."

"What color is Davis's Jeep?" interjected David, reaching for his phone.

"Forest green. It's a Grand Cherokee."

David withdrew to the doorway of Lisa Trask's office to call Don at the crime scene; this was the sort of development that called for an immediate update.

Colby gave Beth Wyland his most winning smile and tapped his notebook with his pen, hoping the result was Don-like indifference sprinkled with charm. "Did Lisa mention anything at all about the Graham case to you recently? Fears, odd coincidences, creepy phone calls?"

She screwed up her face and thought. "No, she was acting pretty normal for a serial killer's legal counsel." The phone on her desk rang, and she jerked her head in its direction. "Mind if I get that?"

Colby watched her walk to the polished wooden desk, disappointed and filled with the sneaking suspicion that if he were Don, she'd ignore the phone. Or maybe FBI agents only fascinated her in interview rooms. Or, he could just be Beach-Boy look-alike in LA number three million, three hundred and thirty-eight thousand. Maybe it was time to go back to Idaho.

Nah.

David walked up behind him and whispered into his ear. "Dork."

"Am not."

"Maybe she only likes FBI agents who refuse to hit on her."

"Maybe she likes FBI agents who hit their partners," Colby retorted, his threatening glare only making David grin all the more broadly.

David drew even closer. "From here it looks like you're hitting _on _me."

Colby responded with an evil grin. "Some women are into that."

David stepped back, wrinkling his nose. "Eew. You win."

* * *

**CORNER OF ALTAMONT & ISABEL, CYPRESS PARK, LOS ANGELES**

Don's phone rang. "Eppes." He welcomed the distraction from the miserably hot car, and wiped sweat from his face while he listened.

The news made him frown, startled. "She got into the vehicle with _who?_ Uh-huh - hang on." Don covered the phone and glanced at Wiseman. "What color was the kidnapper's Jeep?"

"Dark green. I think it was a Grand Cherokee." She looked pretty wilted herself.

Don returned to the phone conversation, still startled. "Matches our witnesses' description, and she said the guy looked Middle Eastern. Have the office send me a photo of Davis?"

"Thanks." Don snapped the phone shut and held it in his lap, waiting for one of the techs to email him the photo. "We might have an ID on the kidnapper," he explained to Wiseman. "They're sending us a picture."

She raised her eyebrows, impressed. "Wow. You guys are good."

"We have to be," was Don's simple reply. "The weapon - could it have been a scalpel?"

"I guess it could, yeah," Wiseman said. "I don't really know if I've ever seen one before, but it did look like that."

"We'll show you some photos of those, too," said Don.

She grimaced. "Is there anything you don't have pictures of? I seriously don't want to know everything you guys have lurking on your hard drives."

"No, you don't," said Don, looking longingly outside the car for any hint of relief from the heat and tempted to drag both himself and Wiseman out into the shade. There wasn't any, and he resigned himself to it. The temperature was probably just as unpleasant outside, and he didn't want to have to restrain Wiseman again.

* * *

**ELEPHANT BUTTE STATE PARK, NEW MEXICO**

Don reached the bow of the boat, relatively certain he hadn't been spotted amid the choppy water that kept slapping him in the face and trying to run up his nose. The unseen accomplice inside the boat was an unknown factor, but he was more likely to have been watching the land approach to the dock. Don treaded water until he found a dangling rope, and moments later a metal ladder to hang onto. Viewed from his new vantage point, the vessel was huge, with a cabin below decks containing the onboard engine.

A gunshot exploded in the quiet air of the state park, followed by a choked growl of pain. Don wanted to think it was Rogerson, but he knew in his gut that it had been Coop. He was tempted to swim to the other side of the boat to look, but it had been done to flush him out and Don wasn't about to play that game. Right now he had to focus, and hope the bullet had gone into a body part Coop didn't need too badly. Hand over hand, a dripping wet Don Eppes eased himself up the ladder, barely breathing. He didn't think he was visible from the vessel's windows, and the hull hid him neatly from Rogerson.

There.

Lying flat just behind the swimming platform aft was a husky blonde man dressed in light colors that blended with the boat, clutching a gun. The boat was sloppily moored by a single line on the other side of the bow, and another with a poorly wrapped knot aft, right in front of Blondie. Don decided that one would come loose by itself if the boat started to pull away from the dock, and he slithered across the open white surface of the bow praying that both killers were too absorbed in their own drama to notice him.

He was in full view as he pulled out his knife and began to slice through to mooring line, and his bare chest was lying on the hot, reflective fiberglass as he worked. He tried to convince himself that whatever his nerves were telling him, a boat couldn't give you third-degree burns. That singularly unpleasant task complete, he slipped onto the deck. Bare feet and minimal clothing worked to his advantage, allowing him to move with impressive stealth down to the cabin door which was mercifully open, and down to the engine compartment.

The cooler air was welcome, but the sudden shift from blazing sun to dim lighting blinded him and he blinked, trying to see the engine clearly. He hoped to figure out a way to jam the throttle open enough to move the boat slowly away from the dock. When Blondie turned to see why the boat was moving, Don would take him down and Rogerson should be distracted for long enough that Coop could overpower him and take the gun. If Coop was disabled or unconscious, Don would have to shoot Blondie, then hope he could take out Rogerson before he could grab another hostage.

As the engine started to take shape in front of his eyes, Don froze, his breathing cut short. There was movement, just barely. Another person breathing silently, trying just as hard as Don not to attract attention. There, on the floor. The picture started to come clear, and his adrenaline-fueled reaction shifted from fear to heartache. It was a woman, bound, gagged, and trying desperately to vanish from his gaze.

Don raised a finger to his lips, meeting her eyes in a silent plea. Quiet. Moving slowly, he retrieved the badge in his pocket and showed it to her. She nodded and went limp in relief, and Don forced his attention back to the engine. He was no expert, but he managed to fire it up and stick his knife in the throttle, jamming it open.

Now.

Now everything would explode from slow, deliberate silence to a lightning-fast, life-or-death sequence of movements, and Don was more than ready. With his gun raised, he slammed the cabin door open as Blondie was turning around to figure out why the engine was running. "Drop the gun! Hands on your head, NOW!"

Don was prepared to give him exactly one instant to surrender before putting two rounds into his chest and one in his head. There was no margin of error here, and he was already lining up the first shot.

There was movement above him and to the side, and a snarl that barely registered in Don's ears before his gun arm was hit with a club that had teeth. A small black Labrador retriever had been crouched on the upper platform just outside the cabin, and Don managed to squeeze off one inaccurate, reflexive shot before the gun fell from his grasp.

The shot missed, and the dog pulled fiercely as though Don's upper arm was a tug toy. Its teeth were lodged deeply in muscle, and Don tried not to scream.

Outside, Rogerson was startled by the commotion. He fired at Coop with a shot intended to kill, but the bullet crashed through the agent's upper calf. Billy hit the deck with a howl, unable to follow when Rogerson ran for the departing boat and jumped onto the aft platform.

It had taken less than fifteen seconds for everything to go wrong, thanks to one unassuming black dog.


	13. Chapter 13

**CORNER OF ALTAMONT & ISABEL, CYPRESS PARK, LOS ANGELES**

A rap on the glass of the squad car window made Wiseman flinch, and startled Don with a sensation akin to an electric shock. His own physical reaction was limited to a blink, and he recovered in an instant. Walker pulled the door open and held up an evidence bag. Within it was a partially filled syringe. "Our guys think this was from the kidnap vehicle. Rapid test for narcotics shows it's a barbiturate, like what you might use if you were trying to knock out your kidnap victim."

"Get it to our lab right away?" requested Don. Walker nodded and closed the door again with a casual slam.

**ELEPHANT BUTTE STATE PARK, NEW MEXICO**

The dog finally released the crushing pressure on Don's arm, and he froze in a moment of utter clarity. He was looking a serial killer in the eyes. Blue ones, blank and lacking in expression like those of a corpse.

He was alone.

He didn't have his gun.

He was trapped with two men who had weapons aimed at his head. In the next thirty seconds, he would be killed or captured.

It frightened him far less than he would have expected. The wound in his arm didn't hurt despite the blood snaking down his skin, and even though he felt calm, he knew objectively that he was charged with more adrenaline than he'd ever experienced and it would help him. He focused on the two men, and adjusted his outlook. This wasn't an arrest, this wasn't a time for reasonable force. This was time to fight for his life.

The dog let loose with a deep growl behind his ear, and Don launched the full weight of his body at Rogerson's partner, grabbing his gun hand and spinning around so that the man's body was behind him, the arm with the gun still pointing where Don had been standing a second before. He yanked upwards and the gun went off, the sharp explosion deafening him. The bullet struck the dog in the chest, and Don saw it yelp in the same moment that blood spread across his opponent's hand. The slide had taken off a good chunk of flesh when the gun fired.

Don stepped on the top of his foot, pinning him, and drove an elbow directly into his stomach. A split second later he was digging his fingers into the wound in his attacker's hand, putting pressure on exposed bone. That howl he did hear, and the gun fell to the deck. Don knew bending down to pick it up would leave him too exposed, so he kicked it away from them both.

Rogerson hadn't shot him yet, that was good.

He glanced in that direction an instant too late. A police baton hit the back of his legs with an audible thud, he fell, and Rogerson was standing over him. He started to roll away, and Rogerson raised the baton. In one precise strike it connected with the wound on Don's upper arm, and for the first time since the fight began he felt pain. Lots of pain. He tried to keep moving, but the injury froze him into place and he screamed. Rogerson's partner sat on his legs, and while he tried to struggle they were too weak. Rogerson had executed a perfect peroneal strike, paralyzing the nerves in his legs. A rope jerked tight around his ankles, and his assailant stood, lifting Don's legs into the air and flipping him onto his stomach.

Rogerson finished the job, using a brutal pain compliance hold to rope Don's hands behind his back, and Don closed his eyes. Thirty seconds. He'd guessed about right.

Captured, not killed.

Yet.

The boat was pulling out into the lake under its own steering, thanks to Don's tampering with the engine. The separation from land and help unnerved him, but being out of range of the civilians on the dock was worth it. Something as trivial as a bullet in his leg wouldn't stop Billy from getting them to some sort of safety, and at least he still had a radio to direct the responders with. The sheer lack of vegetation around the lake would make the boat impossible to hide from a helicopter.

Don was frozen between fighting with everything he had, taking a beating in the name of sheer defiance and the chance that he might land a lucky blow or wiggle a hand free, and playing possum until one of them made a mistake. In the seconds it took him to decide, a noose of rope was wrapped around his upper body and tightened, pinioning his upper arms to his back. He struggled, and for the first time Don experienced true fear. He wrenched against the rope and managed to land on his side, fear escalating to something he didn't want to recognize as near panic when he couldn't wrench his arms free from the ropes no matter how much force he exerted.

Fighting it was. If there was a human being out there capable of holding still for this, it wasn't him and the longer this took, the better the chances of backup arriving to save him. Now there was a miserable thought. An entire HRT team bursting in and finding Special Agent Don Eppes tied up like a Thanksgiving turkey. His legs still refused to respond, so he used his upper body to slam into Rogerson's knees.

It was humiliation at the idea of being found like this that fueled the next couple of minutes of desperate struggles, but it still ended with him lying on his side on the deck with his ankles wrenched back and bound to his wrists, effectively hog-tying him. The two proceeded to amuse themselves by attaching rope to any part of him that was still capable of independent movement, and when the two men stepped back to fish a box out of a nearby cabinet humiliation gave way to fear and pain.

Please get here, he thought, begging the helicopters to hurry up. Please get here now, come on, I need you.

Help.

The box contained a syringe, needles, and a bottle of liquid, which Rogerson's partner assembled with practised efficiency, filling the syringe with liquid. Don tried not to think about all the old movies with evil Nazis sticking needles into screaming torture victims. Wasn't that mostly myth? Hadn't he heard - Rogerson's partner was advancing with the damn thing.

Help.

Blondie was kneeling now, tying a rubber strip around his arm. Don's frantic wiggling made him roll his eyes. "It's just to knock you out for a while, don't panic. You'll be more comfortable unconscious right now anyway." His captor slid the needle into his vein so expertly that Don didn't even recognize it had happed until a split second later, and Don used all his strength to jerk away and get the needle out of his arm.

The needle pierced his arm again, and he jerked his upper body again to dislodge it. They'd tied enough rope around him to hold an elephant, but it didn't take much movement to keep someone from hitting a vein. A sharp curse told him the move had been effective. Rogerson was unamused. "Just - stick it in him somewhere! We're almost to shore."

"I can't. Has to go in a vein, or it'll take a good half hour to knock him out."

Rogerson aimed his gun directly at Don's face. "Hold still, or I will shoot you in the head. Got it?"

Don didn't blink. "Nope. Don't think so." It was a gamble, but he was almost certain from all the work they'd done to subdue him without serious injury that the goal was a live kidnap victim.

Rogerson drew back his arm and brought it down sharply, cracking the side of the metal gun against Don's ear. While Don was still reeling, the blonde man moved in again with the needle, and Don twisted sideways, managing not to whimper at the pressure that made him exert on the muscles in his injured arm. "This isn't going to work, man. Hit him over the head again."

"Or - don't," suggested Don. "Don't you think that a few hundred yards of rope, a dog bite and a good beating are enough to subdue me?"

Rogerson rolled his eyes. "Spunk. I like that. But I want you unconscious for our little trip." He stepped away from Don and picked up a length of rope. He knotted the end and formed a noose, keeping a close eye on Don's reactions. He was smiling in anticipation, hardly able to wait for the fear to show. Don was fairly certain he kept his expression steady, but he was unable to avoid tensing up when Rogerson slipped it over his head, his booted foot inches from Don's vulnerable face.

Guys? Really, really in trouble here. _Help_. Come on...he twisted his head around to the sky, trying to will a helicopter into existence through sheer desperate need. There wasn't a sound except for waves on the hull, the activity of his captors, and the sound of his own frantic pulse in his ears, the force of which made his head spin.

"I'll choke him out, you give him the needle."

The rope bit into the skin of Don's neck, and when he tried to draw in a breath to brace himself, he couldn't.

**CORNER OF ALTAMONT & ISABEL, CYPRESS PARK, LOS ANGELES**

"Hey..." Wiseman's voice was uncertain, even concerned. "You okay there, ah, agent?"

Don raised his eyes to meet a pair of worried brown eyes, and smiled. "Yeah. Thanks. You?"

She hesitated. "I think we'll both make it. We've been in the same place, haven't we?" Her gaze was direct.

Don studied her back, acutely uncomfortable with the idea that his thoughts and reactions were readable by a stranger. Not just a stranger, but a subject in an investigation. "Kate? You don't have to try to force a bond with me. I'm playing fair."

She blinked, stung. Don's stomach clenched, and he looked away. His defensive reaction had completely disregarded the imbalance of emotional vulnerability in play here. "And you don't have to be an asshole for me to respect you. Silly me, to think empathy could go both ways." There was a waver in her voice, but she was determined to force the words out. "Or does kindness get reserved for the helpless?"

"Usually," said Don, his voice dry. He sighed. "I'm sorry, Kate."

"Katie." There was a gentleness in that word, understanding and forgiveness.

Don stared at her for a moment, the wheels spinning in his head. It was both a hazard of the job and an essential skill, learning not to take the attempts of a suspect to forge common ground at face value. Agents who ignored the realities of manipulation and just plain acting out of a misguided faith in human nature got tricked at best and shot at worst.

Don really, really didn't want to get shot again.

No, that wasn't right. He listened to the scared, vulnerable part of him that was poking its head around the corner with great caution. He didn't want to get _hurt _again.

Respect. He'd seen it when he released her, and he saw it now. If fear and cynicism stripped him of his confidence in his ability to read people, he might as well quit. "Okay, Katie," he said gently. I accept your compassion, and I return it.

There was no triumph in her gaze, no emotional or physical sucker punch. Just a scared human being. "Hang tight," said Don.

He knocked sharply to be let out of the car and approached Lt. Walker. "You guys charging her?"

Gary raised one eyebrow. "I don't know, are we?"

Don shrugged. "I think your boys managed to scare off any ideas she might have about taking potshots at cars."

There was a twinkle of pleased mischief in the Lieutenant's eyes. He was glad Don had figured out his game. "She's all yours. We keep the gun."

Don returned and pulled open the door to the squad car, waving her out. "You're not being arrested." Wiseman's composure wavered quite definitively at that, and she scrambled out of the car blinking tears from her eyes. "I need you at my office for a bit though, okay?"

She nodded rapidly. "Whatever I can do."

They scrambled into Don's Suburban, and his fingers punched at the air conditioning, cranking it up to max as he pulled away from the curb. They were both sticky with sweat, and Don drove away as if fleeing a forest fire. The blissfully cold air was just starting to spread through the vehicle when Don's phone buzzed with the photo of Adim Davis.

He passed his phone over to her. She did a double-take, and looked again. "That's him! How did you... you were investigating him already? He _is _a terrorist?"

"Not a terrorist," said Don. "Doctor. You absolutely certain? If this is a case of Middle Eastern guys blending together in your head, we'll be accusing a career humanitarian."

"I'm positive," she said.

Don frowned. Granted, he hadn't spent more than a couple of minutes with Davis at the mill, but he knew trauma when he saw it. Graham had without a doubt tazered the poor guy within an inch of his life. It had been no act, and no game.

So - what? A partnership gone bad? Coercion?

He snatched his phone back. "Nikki? Did anyone actually talk to Dr. Davis's wife recently? No? Okay, I need someone to pick her up if they can find her, I don't care if she is out of town, got it? Let's treat her as a possible hostage, and check into other family members. Put out an APB on Adim Davis, and shoot me a photo of Lisa Trask. I'm coming in with a witness named Kate Wiseman, and I'd like an agent to sit down and debrief her in detail about the kidnapping."

Back at the FBI office, Nikki jotted down his instructions on the other end of the line and dashed for the war room. A few minutes ago she and Liz had been stewing about not being out in the field, but now they were in the thick of the action.

Don tossed his phone down on the seat beside him and fiddled with the air conditioning. His mind was on the case, but his nervous system was pleading _make it colder_. It was also screaming _I'm thirsty_ without much hope. Wiseman had gone very quiet now that she felt safer, and Don glanced at her.

She was slumped with her head back against the seat, unconsciously clutching her wrists where she'd been handcuffed. Her hair was clinging to the side of her face in sticky tendrils. Her eyes were closed, and Don left her alone.

_Ahem_, nudged his nervous system. _Ignore me all you want, but you have a wilted person in your car to take care of. _ It was all the excuse he needed to take a left turn and drive a few blocks to a small drive-through.

"Two banana-strawberry-fudge smoothies, please," he requested at the window. "Large."

Don handed one to Wiseman as they pulled away. "One of the best things you'll taste in your life. Summer-in-LA version of comfort food." Her smile was weak but deeply grateful. His phone buzzed again, and he checked it before pulling back into traffic.

Wiseman held the smoothie cup in one hand and Don's phone in the other. Her stillness confirmed the victim as Lisa Trask before she bothered with the requisite short nod. She took a while to look away from the screen. "What are her chances?"

Don had a feeling only honesty would fly; this wasn't a person still under the illusion of compulsory triumph of good over evil. "Statistically, poor." He glanced over at her. "We do save people. My team is good, and we do save people."

"I keep hearing her scream." Wiseman looked away. "I keep - thinking it was my job to save her, and I blew it."

Don considered for a moment, doggedly ignoring the mental image of a woman dying in his arms in a basement. "She may be murdered, and if so you'll blame yourself," he said bluntly. "You'll also know you tried your best to save her, and in the end that's going to absolve you."


	14. Chapter 14

**FBI OFFICE, WAR ROOM**

Don strode into the war room, having deposited Wiseman into the capable hands of a missing persons agent for debriefing. He'd been out of the office for less than two hours, but felt like he'd been out visiting an alternate universe for a few weeks. Liz and Nikki were both speaking into phones while they typed on keyboards, and in Nikki's case, shuffled papers with a spare elbow.

David walked in moments behind him and gave his arm a friendly squeeze in passing. His second in command was on a mission, and that was to update their displays. They went from all Calvin Graham, all the time, to a comprehensive array of linked screens.

One remained fixed on Graham. Adim Davis, Lisa Trask, and an unfamiliar woman each got their own screen, and another rotated evidence photos. It all too prominently featured the barbiturate-filled syringe that Don expected to be seeing in his nightmares, but Don was more curious about the new addition.

"Gila Davis," said Nikki from across the room. She was still on the phone, but the irritated tap of her fingers indicated she was on hold. "Adim Davis's wife."

David met Don's questioning gaze. "Missing since, get this, the day before Graham's trial. Adim was lying about her being out of town, and it turns out nobody really knows where she is."

Don gave a low whistle. "She fit Graham's victim profile?"

"Nope."

Don frowned, watching the screens. It was more than just a macabre display; it was a tool to invoke thoughts, jog memories, and just maybe, with enough repetition, make vital connections. Gila Davis. Pretty, sweet expression, intelligent-looking. No criminal record, no police calls, no lawsuits, no prior marriages...no, she didn't fit the victim profile. "She's a hostage," Don said. "Agree?"

David came up to stand beside Don, joining him at the screen. "Coerced testimony? That Davis was going to give willingly in the first place? Followed by kidnapping Davis, holding him hostage, letting him go, and making him kidnap someone else?" There was considerable doubt in the agent's voice, and Don couldn't help but lend credence to it.

"Don't know. But why does a guy like Davis suddenly kidnap a serial killer's next victim for him?"

"She's in on it?" suggested Colby from the back of the room. "The good doctor's wife falls for the poor, misunderstood murderer and the two of them scheme happily ever after?"

That damned syringe again, and the uneasy twisting of his own stomach. _It's just to knock you out for a while, don't panic. You'll be more comfortable unconscious..._ It had been Rogerson who was the sadist. Blondie had just been the unprincipled puppy dog in love with the guy and willing to do anything for him.

"Rog- Graham kills his victims with injections, right?" asked Don. "Drugs them, then shoots them when they're out?"

Liz unleashed a flurry of typing behind him. Nobody paid attention to Don's slip of the tongue. "Different cocktail," she said after a minute. "The kidnap syringe contained IV anesthetic, Graham dopes them out pre-kill with feel-good stuff delivered intra muscularly. Anxiety meds, muscle relaxers, painkillers, that kind of thing. There's a different skill set involved, almost anyone can give an IM shot, but IV takes some training."

"So nothing to indicate Davis has been doing the kill shots," concluded Don. Another point occurred to him. "Graham's been doing this a long time, Davis hasn't been back from the field all that long. If they were working together, it'd have to be a pretty recent development."

"Maybe they were working together," suggested Colby. "Had a falling out, Graham shocks the hell out of him to scare him back into the fold, and now he's back to kidnapping as usual."

"The wife could have fled," said Nikki. "She finds out something that terrifies her about her perfect husband, so she decides the safest thing to do is vanish. She probably still has contacts outside the country."

Don nodded. "Check travel records. If she flew anywhere, I want to know. Let's run down her credit cards and do a local hotel sweep."

"On it," said Nikki.

"She could be a hostage, she could be an accomplice, or she could be fleeing from her husband. Let's dig deep, but do it quietly and fast. Two of those scenarios put her in significant danger, and we don't want to be the ones to get her killed." He eyed the syringe again. "Put out an APB, if she's found I want her in custody and brought here immediately. No press, no phone calls to anyone who could be Graham, she comes straight to this office."

Don's words acknowledged the very reasonable theory that she could be an accomplice. So did his sense of logic, and his knowledge of criminal behavior. At the same time, his eyes were focused on the pictures of her, and the summary of her work with MSF. _No,_ his gut whispered. This was a doctor he was looking at, a real one. He'd seen that expression before.

**GERALD CHAMPION REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER, ALAMOGORDO, NEW MEXICO**

Don carefully moved his head by millimeters until he had a full view of Billy Cooper sitting in a chair beside his hospital bed, wondering how it was that he found it harder to move rescued and medicated than -

Thinking about the basement proved a mistake, and he made himself focus on Coop. His partner looked pretty rough. Unshaven, sunburned (and perhaps a bit flame-burned, come to think of it), with his eyes glazed over in what could be exhaustion or pain. It didn't take long to see why he hadn't shaved; the just-healing cuts in the skin of his upper neck probably didn't invite sharp blades to venture anywhere close.

What Don expected to feel was forgiveness, but what rose up instead was anger.

Yeah, I'm lying here paying the price for everyone's fuck ups. You, Coop, rushing in to save the day against every bit of tactical logic. You, Petey, for getting pissed off and murdering your only lead instead of taking the time to run a smart interrogation. And who the hell has an excuse to not being right on my tail with a helicopter? You never even thought they might have dumped the boat in a decoy location?

_You didn't come for me._

That was the wrenching hurt that could only be felt as anger, lest it finish ripping him apart forever.

_I trusted you guys. I counted on you. You didn't come._

Don closed his eyes. And what about those kids on the dock? What if Coop did the right thing and stood by waiting for me while another person was murdered in front of their eyes? Trust was still sacred at that age, trust that the good guys would save the day. Coop gave them that. Better me lying here going through this hurt than to have ten innocent kids learning what this murder of hope feels like. This is what I'm here for, to protect that, right?

"You - got shot. Couple times."

Billy nodded with a 'so what' expression on his face, challenging Don to make something of it. Following Don's concerned gaze down to his leg, he finally rolled his eyes and jerked up the fabric of his pants to reveal a heavy bandage wrapped around his calf. It was soaked with blood new and old, and unexpectedly made Don want to gag. Hoping the ordeal hadn't made him permanently squeamish, he asked, "They - let you in the field like that?"

His partner snorted, a good-hearted sound. "What do you think, genius? The ER doc stitched everything back together, and I wasn't dumb enough to ask him what I could and couldn't do."

"Where's the other?" Billy had clearly hoped he wouldn't ask. Reluctantly, he tugged up one side of his shirt to reveal a burnt, bloody line on the side of his ribcage where Rogerson had fired his gun point-blank along the agent's side. There were stitches in the middle of the mess, but they'd clearly been having a hard time holding the wound together through whatever the hell the agent had been doing, and there was more congealed blood sticking to his shirt.

Don felt nauseous, and the last thing his tender throat and aching muscles wanted to contend with was throwing up any more. He looked away and tried frantically to remove the bloody images from his head. It didn't work, and he rolled to his side, retching so hard it brought water to his eyes. He was cold, shivering, and hot beyond imagining, and he noticed nothing of Billy Cooper's frantic departure and the entry of the doctor and her nurse. When he finally stopped throwing up, the doctor was there kneeling by the bed with soothing words that he didn't comprehend. There were orders and drugs added to the IV line, and slowly the world became just bearable enough for him to focus his eyes on the doctor and listen.

"Are you feeling any better?" she asked gently.

He blinked his eyes in a yes, afraid to move. Afraid of what his world and his reactions seemed to be now. Afraid that he was no longer an FBI agent. Afraid, suddenly, of being alive.

"Are you scared?" He couldn't bring himself to answer even with a blink, so he simply met her eyes steadily and knew what she would see. The doctor reached out and just barely touched his hand with the back of hers, and he was amazed at the comfort that barely perceptible gesture brought. She took a seat next to the bed, tugging the thin white hospital blanket back up over his shoulders. It was little enough shelter, but it helped. "Do you still want to live?"

He stopped breathing. _ Not like this. No. Not afraid, not so sick when I see my partner that I dread seeing him again_.

"You must have wanted very badly to survive. The agents and paramedics told me how you rescued yourself. There are quite a few people who would have simply used a chain around their neck to kill themselves in your situation. It would have been very easy."

_Yes, I wanted to live. _

The doctor leaned forward, her forthright words holding Don's attention and respect. "It's not uncommon for people to survive traumatic events only to commit suicide later. When you get yourself through something by fantasizing about the moment when it will all be over, and that moment comes - it can be psychologically crushing to find that there's still pain and fear."

_Yes. That_. "It doesn't feel over." He practically blurted the words out, and didn't care that it hurt.

"It isn't," she said bluntly. "But it's going to get better every day. I have to tell many people that they won't fully recover from their injuries, but you are not one of them. Physically, you are going to be fully healed in a month. Think you can handle the psychological end of things for me if I give you my word you're going to be running around breaking down doors again soon? You can even jump out of helicopters and pull distressed damsels out of burning buildings if you really want to."

Don felt himself smile unbidden. "I'm FBI, not Superman."

The doctor smiled back. "Okay. But the promise of a full recovery and perhaps just a tiny, sexy little scar on your arm still stands. Okay?"

This time he managed a nod, and felt inordinately proud of himself because of it. _Next up, helicopters._

She was still eying him, and he closed his eyes, the temporary euphoria fading. "What about the PTSD? That's the real cause of - throwing up when -" there was acid in his throat, and he stopped, gripping the blanket as hard as he could."

"You're completely correct," said the gentle voice, and the lack of platitudes coaxed his eyes open again. There was so much in the expression of the doctor; understanding, compassion, caring. After so much sustained cruelty, it hit him so strongly as to bring tears to the back of his eyes. "Your brain is going to be doing things to you that you won't be able to control, and you will experience fear and emotions that are just as horrible as what you went through in that basement, and even purely physical reactions."

"I know," Don whispered. _ I don't know if I can take that. I especially don't know how I can take that and still be an FBI agent._

She had no trouble hearing what he didn't say. "Your ability to recognize that PTSD for what it is, and endure it and treat it, will make the difference between this incident ending your life as you know it or simply being a bad experience in your past. If you face that with the same courage and intelligence you showed during the last few days, you will make it out of this intact."

**FBI OFFICE, WAR ROOM**

"You don't think he's a bad guy, do you?" asked David, snapping Don out of his trance and coming to stand beside him at the screen.

Don shook his head. "But what I think's not always right. What else we got?"

"ERT finished searching Graham's house, and didn't find anything that might indicate where he's holding Trask. They did find dead tazer batteries, police supply catalogs, and a bunch of low-rent conspiracy stuff. You know, the prison system is deliberately rigged to produce criminality, AIDS was invented by the government, growing up in an abusive home makes you a serial killer..."

"All things that reinforce his view that he's a victim," mused Don. "You know, most rape survivors, especially men, are desperate to avoid being viewed as victims. Most don't even want to talk about it, let alone bring attention to their time of greatest helplessness."

"What if it never happened?" asked Nikki from behind them. "I know doubting a rape victim is the last thing in the world we should do, but this guy profiles as a manipulative narcissist with a martyr complex. Maybe being from an abusive home didn't get him the attention he craved, so he came up with something even more horrible."

David and Don both nodded. "Plausible," said Don. "Don't think knowing one way or another'll help us find him though." He turned to face his team. "David, Colby, check out Graham's house for any hints to where he might hide out. The forensic guys might not have picked up on the human side of things. Liz, Nikki, you do the same for Davis. He's the more inexperienced criminal, so we've got a much better chance of finding him than Graham. I'm going to interview Davis's friends and co-workers."

**CHARLIE'S OFFICE, CAL-SCI**

Charlie picked up a small digital recorder and spun it in his hand. When computers and pen and ink failed him, sometimes this magical little device saved him from humiliation the likes of which he would be facing if he addressed the crowd with nothing prepared. Manmade disaster rescue. Wasn't that a statement of the human condition? He pressed record.

"There is no poetry in cruelty. But when it brings out compassion and caring in others, sometimes we see the very best qualities of humanity drown out the worst in a thundering roar. That's what drives some of us to work among the wreckage." Charlie pressed stop and turned his head away. It was heartfelt and a hollow platitude. It was as deep a truth as he could voice, and a self-serving smirk.

Was it true?

"We all struggle for redemption from our own wreckage, and at times it is only through the eyes of a father, or a brother, or even a stranger that we see this cracks in our foundation as a thing of beauty. They speak to endurance, love, and the qualities that remain standing through the passage of time, only growing more significant with the shifting of perspective. When we seek to save others, we expose ourselves to pain beyond measure and yet through our actions, we save ourselves."

"We look on, awe-stricken by the wreckage. We look at the victims, and selfishly we hope that we are never in their shoes because we cannot imagine surviving their pain. Those in this room are here because we are moved by an emotional and ethical imperative to mitigate the damage caused by our own. While natural disasters are tragic, manmade disasters strike at our core."

Charlie's throat was growing uncomfortably tight, and he stopped the recording again. Unable to continue, he transferred the recording to his computer.

**DON'S APARTMENT, THAT NIGHT**

Don sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. "You haven't asked me anything about what happened in New Mexico." Robin looked at him in silence. "Did you - look it up?"

"Are you asking if I violated Federal law and your privacy by accessing sealed case files on my boyfriend?"

"Yes."

"You're a cynical, suspicious bastard sometimes, you know that?"

Don had to smile. "Comes with the territory."

Robin leaned towards him. "I've known you long enough to know - whatever scars Rogerson left you with, they've faded and become part of you now." Don nodded, almost timidly. "I also know you're very troubled right now, and - I'm not sure exactly why."

Don sighed. "Trouble is how people see you after, and how you see yourself reflected in that. Second-guessing every move for whether it's influenced by what happened, or what someone's thinking about you. Am I too close to the case, and if that's so, why am I going to sleep tonight when there's a woman out there being raped and beaten. Been living with this long enough to know the answer is to forget it all and just do my job like any other agent, but..."

"Can I ask you something?" Don nodded. Robin's expression hardened at what she might hear. "That mob witness - did you really sleep with her to get her to flip?"

Don closed his eyes. "No. God, of course not."

"What was it then?"

"She was scared to death. She was in danger, she was alone, and she needed someone. So did I. It - wasn't calculated, for either of us. It was one of those cases where - sex made a good excuse for intimacy and emotion between strangers."

Robin nodded. "Was she - in love with you?"

Don shook his head. "We reassured each other that there were people in the world who could be caring, and gentle. I guess that was a loving act, but - I think we left each other better off, but - no. I wasn't using her, or vice versa."

Robin let out a sigh of relief, and Don felt his heart constrict. "Sweetie - are you worried that I'm going to leave? This isn't a game for me, I promise."

"I try not to be. But you have a reputation, and - I know the odds between us would have to try really hard to get any worse."

His throat tightened along with his heart, and he tried desperately not to feel like he was on trial for his life. "People beat odds, all right? And - talk to any woman I've been with. Ask if I hurt her, or she wouldn't still come to me if she needed help. Please?"

There were tears in Robin's eyes, partly from relief and partly from empathy with the fear that was consuming Don. "Okay." She ran her fingers gently through his hair, exploring, caressing. Her eyes were incredibly sober, lacking in Charlie's raw pain but holding a similar aspect of confused exploration. Why was that? He reached out his own hand, placing it on Robin's heart and feeling it beat.

"Why is it that - when people find out, they have this - this need to figure me out all over again?"

"I can't speak for everyone," said Robin.

"You, then. Why are you - re-examining my soul?"

"I think because - who you are, what your life has been - it's turned you into this person I love. And - it's painful to think about you suffering, but - also - it's me looking at who you are now, and who you have been, and trying to figure out where Don Eppes and what's been _done _to Don Eppes intercept."

Unexpectedly, Don caught himself smiling. "Good luck. I've been trying to figure that out myself. Any leads?"

"No." She moved closer to him, snuggling into his arms. "I'm getting the feeling I might enjoy the investigation, though."

Don buried his face in her hair, seeking until he found an earlobe to target for a playful nibble. "Wanna interrogate me?" he whispered, falling automatically into teasing banter.

Robin twisted her head until their faces met, forehead to forehead, nose to nose, eye to eye. "No," she whispered, closing her eyes and kissing him so softly it made every past hurt and every tension melt. "I want to make love to you."

Don closed his eyes and smiled. "Okay."


	15. Chapter 15

**LOS ANGELES FBI OFFICE, WAR ROOM**

It was early, and the atmosphere in the war room was struggling to attain its normal crisp efficiency. Five agents sat, yawning and sipping coffee while trying to sound chipper and awake as the sun slowly rose over the city. The dusky smog that usually clouded the air was darkened by wildfires raging at the edges of suburbia, snaking into backyards and homes while those out of their reach tried to pretend ease with the unnerving orange cast of the brightening daylight.

Don did a quick mental check of his fellow agent's addresses, and decided to ask anyway. "Any of your houses in danger?"

Heads were shaken, but Nikki glanced at the window. "Friends might have to evacuate."

Don nodded. "See to it now, might not have time later." She stood and left the room just as a young mail clerk entered and handed Don an envelope. Out of habit, his stomach clenched when he saw the origin. It grew tighter when he opened the missive.

Notice of Departmental Review.

Anger soon followed, and his expression wasn't missed.

"What new joys hath the day brought?" asked Colby with a sarcastic wiggle of his eyebrows.

"It seems Pete Fox has a lawyer who's convinced the family to object to my shooting of his late client. Suit's triggering a review of my use of lethal force in general."

Colby's response was succinct. "Fuck."

"You're in the clear, Don, and you know it." Count on David to be accurate, kind, and reassuring. The problem was, Don didn't feel like being reassured. He felt like punching someone.

"I know." Don set the envelope down almost delicately. It was Don's very restraint that told the other agents just how furious he was.

Colby threw up a finger as though something had just occurred to him. "Shooting the reviewer _might_ not work in your favor, though. Just a thought."

**SANTA FE FBI OFFICE**

He hadn't known, standing in the SAC's office that first week back with his heart in his throat, that this was only the first terrifying review he was going to face. Nor that he was going to be at the mercy of dozens of other officials over the course of his career in the aftermath of things that had simply happened.

SAC Palmer picked up a form. "So your first act on your first day back on the job is to file for reinstatement to the field?"

"That's right, sir," said Don, eying Landau with unease. Marvin Landau was reputed to be a good leader with the political clout to become the Director one day, but his current position of Regional Director made him powerful enough to fear.

"Okay, here's how it works," said Palmer, sitting back in his brown leather chair. "Once your doctor clears you for field duty, your psychologist has to certify you as mentally ready to go back out as well as completely stable on any medications prescribed to you. You go to Quantico for a two-week recertification course, your instructors and I sign off, and you're back at it."

"You want me to go back to Quantico? Not that I don't enjoy training there, but you actually think I've forgotten how to do my job in the whole three weeks I've been on leave?"

Landau leaned forward and put his elbows on the polished walnut desk, looking thoughtfully at Don. He oozed bureaucrat, and Don wanted to dislike him for that. He also had an intelligent and direct gaze that Don instinctively liked, something not typical under the standard layer of official nonsense. "You've been under personal and professional scrutiny since the day you chose this career. That doesn't stop or get swayed by the fact that you were involved in a bad incident. Would you want it to?"

"No," Don admitted.

"You will have our full support and understanding, you got that? This is not the first time one of our agents has had a deeply traumatic experience in the field, and we're pretty good at supporting our own through the fallout. Part of that involves retraining and re-qualifying with agents who understand and can make sure that when you go back out there, you don't flinch next time you're in a tight spot."

Don looked away, not sure which of the battling emotions should get the upper hand. Gratitude? Anger? Fear that he wouldn't make it back?

"Thank you, Sir."

**LOS ANGELES FBI OFFICE, WAR ROOM**

Don searched for a way to dismiss the entire situation, and found it in Liz's rapidly typing fingers. "Liz, whattaya got?"

Her slight smile was that of a predator narrowing in, but not yet certain of her prey. "A criminal mastermind doctor Adim Davis - is - not. He used his ATM card last night, and - " a slight frown and more typing.

"Assuming he ditched his car and doesn't want to be seen using public transport, there are only three hotels within walking distance of the ATM that are questionable enough to let him check in without showing ID."

"Have LAPD sweep them." Don's command was entirely unnecessary and about five seconds behind Liz's transmission to the LAPD dispatcher, but she graciously nodded as though it was a brilliant stroke of tactical genius.

David yawned, trying not to let Don's irritation rub off on him. It didn't make for a good start to the day when his boss was already seething before 5am. What he was planning to announce wasn't going to make it any better. "The Behavioral Analysis Unit declines to send their team to assist, but they had an agent review the files and he'd like to videoconference us at nine."

Don didn't overlook the yawn for what it was, an unconscious diversionary tactic. For several moments, it only increased his anger. It was his damn right to object. Did anyone at this agency think it was easy to look at the mirror and see a man who had killed thirteen people? Did they think he didn't feel some sort of ache each time he defended the act of firing a bullet into a living person?

Most importantly, didn't someone up there have the good sense to know how vulnerable someone devoted to being on the side of the good guys was to the suggestion that maybe he was in the wrong, maybe it hadn't been absolutely necessary?

Slowly the anger was giving way to what Don dreaded far more, sadness and compassion. The agents looking at him from the corners of their eyes understood, because they had been there too. Maybe even the guys typing up the paperwork understood what they were inflicting. That didn't make it better, just sadder.

Damn it. There were too many decent people doing things that hurt, too many silent utterances of_ it's my job, this is what I have to do today, I'm sorry_.

I don't want to send you this letter.

I don't want to tell you your son has been murdered.

I don't want to put you in jail.

I don't want to watch you die.

Damn it. Damn it. He made himself look at the screen with Lisa Trask's face on it, and had trouble focusing on anything but her eyes. Eyes that wanted to turn blue, and defeated, and heart-wrenchingly brave.

**RURAL NEW MEXICO, UNKNOWN RESIDENTIAL BASEMENT**

The door slammed, bolts and locks snapped into place, and heavy footsteps walked away, leaving Don in the mostly dark basement. There was one light, high on the ceiling of the decrepit bathroom, which provided just enough illumination to see by.

He lay motionless, trying to get a grasp on something, anything, in his own head. He thought he was in shock, probably. Had to be. Otherwise, wouldn't he be horrified, or something?

_It's over_. For now, anyway. Makes sense you're - oh, what the hell is going on?

He finally recognized the bizarre element of emotion. Triumph. He'd just been -

Tortured. It was a shock to think it, and realize it. Torture was something out of nightmares, of movies, of stories one read about other people.

Raped. Something thought of with horror, and automatically assumed to be devastating.

And yet he was still here, still in one piece, still Don Eppes. Feeling awful, but not quite exactly devastated. Compared to what he'd just survived, it was tolerable to simply lie there.

"Are you conscious?" asked a soft voice. Don flinched, startled. His whole body tightened, terrified of being hit with another of those devastating shocks. He realized too late that his hands were tied behind his back as he tried to struggle, and for a split second the panic returned. Just as quickly, it faded. He didn't have the strength left to sustain any sort of reaction to anything.

Deep in the back of his confused, dazed mind, he was starting to recall that he was an FBI agent. There had been a boat, and - oh, no. A woman tied up in the cabin. He hadn't been able to save her. _Oh, no. No, no, no, tell me she's not stuck in here with me._

"I'm sorry, I - I didn't mean to scare you." She paused, and Don tried to turn around and look at her. His muscles refused to respond. "It's just that - my hands are free, and if it's okay I can probably get your wrists untied."

"Please," Don managed to say quietly. He couldn't even feel his hands, or the ropes, and was still a little hazy on the fact that they were bound. He didn't remember how they got that way, and he wondered if he'd passed out at some point. Her fingers were timid and gentle, and slowly managed to work the knots free.

"You're a police officer?" she asked.

"FBI." It all felt so normal, the two of them having a conversation of sorts. He wondered if he should use his real name with her, and decided it wouldn't be wise. "Donald Eppes."

"Mia Pierce. He - grabbed me at a gas station and stole my car. The smaller one did, the one who - hurt you." Her voice and words were oddly calm, and Don managed to twist his head around to look at her, throttling himself with the chain.

A simply pretty woman with short black hair swam into his blurred vision. She reached forward instantly when he gagged, tugging and managing to pull it slack so he could lay his head back down on the floor.

A second look revealed the reason for the unsettling calm; she was utterly exhausted, her eyes red from tears. Her wrists were battered and red, one side of her face bruised. The initial panic had come and gone hours or days ago. There was blood from a fresh wound trickling down the side of her temple, and Don realized she had probably tried to come to his aid and been thrown against something hard.

He was finally starting to think like an agent again, instead of a dazed kidnap victim. "We'll get you out of here," he said, his voice coming out amazingly authoritative and reassuring. It steadied him, although it seemed to amuse his new friend Mia. "Are you injured?"

She blinked, her expression unchanged as her eyes filled with tears. After a moment, Don understood and reached for her hand with an ache in his heart.

**LOS ANGELES FBI OFFICE, WAR ROOM**

I don't want you to die. I don't want to find your body. I want to find you, even if you've been beaten and raped and I have to hold you while you sob until you don't have any strength left in your lungs, I want to save you.

Even if I have to kill Calvin Graham to do it, I want to save you.

Lisa Trask finally came into focus as herself, and Don's eyes traveled to the photo of Gila Davis. She's a victim. But I have to ask. "Any hits on Davis's wife?"

Liz was once again ready with the update. "On it, boss. Her car was found at the Bob Hope airport, but there is no record of her having boarded a flight. I've sent in an order to review the security footage for whenever it was left there." There was a short pause while she typed and scanned for more information. "Her cell phone is still off and her credit cards and bank accounts haven't been used."

"Okay."

Colby took a turn to speak next, and his voice held a gentle note that simultaneously touched and annoyed Don. There was a part of him that would forever treasure compassion, having known the lack of it. There was also the part that hated, with everything it had, that something of his emotional turmoil must be visible to the other agents.

"Remember the aerosol paint traces I mentioned in the victim's lungs?" Don nodded. "I've been going over ME's reports, and while they aren't exactly all the same, there's an interesting general pattern of chemical residue on the victims. Paint, fuel oil, sulfuric acid, sodium phosphate, polymers, lime, and soda ash have all been found."

Don frowned. "Were any of the victims mutilated with the acid or lime?"

Colby shook his head. "Nope. We're talking trace amounts. They probably reflect the type of environments he likes to hold his victims in. Maybe not just, say, mills, but chemical plants? Farms?"

"Look into it," ordered Don. "Knowing more about where he likes to take his victims could be vital to finding her alive, especially if we narrow it down enough that Charlie can analyze possible locations based on what type of facility he's hiding in."

"Will do," agreed Colby. "His business is some sort of industrial plumbing -piping - supply outfit, so I'll check on what facilities they sell to and contract with, and see if anything in their catalog matches up with the traces on the victims."

Don nodded, heartened. "Good job." He stood up and stretched with another yawn. "Let's go hotel-hopping. Maybe we can find Davis."


	16. Chapter 16

Charlie was just finishing eating lunch alone when he heard Don's Suburban pull up outside the house, and he jumped up to greet his brother.

"Hey, Charlie." Don tossed him a flash drive and eyed the table. "Ate it all without me?"

"Well, to be fair, I had no idea you were going to come home and pelt me with electronics," said Charlie, grinning. "Thanks for the new flash drive, by the way."

Don grinned back. "Adim Davis used his ATM card last night. We thought he ditched his car somewhere, probably took public transportation to the ATM and then walked to a seedy hotel for the night. Only problem is, he wasn't at any of the seedy hotels we checked."

"And you want me to use the data on this to..."

"Magically-mathematically find him?" suggested Don hopefully.

Charlie gave him a playful glare. "I'll try. Give me a couple hours to cook up the voodoo equations and slaughter a goat."

"Thanks, Chuck," said Don, still grinning. It was the first time in a while that Charlie had seen Don playful, and Charlie was enjoying the banter more than he would even in a normal week. It was like palpable reassurance that things were going to be okay, that it was possible for life to return to normal and joy to reign. "What's going on in non-serial-killer-land these days?"

Charlie sat, and Don joined him. "The university is holding a fundraiser for our manmade disaster rescue research program. They asked me to speak. I've been working on it for hours, off and on, and –" he glanced out the window at the smoky haze the sunlight was filtering through "- it looks like with the fires approaching more populated areas, we may have to cancel. Everyone is going to be out testing projects and trying to assist with rescue efforts."

Don shook his head. "Okay - fires ravaging the city are inconveniencing you by maybe cancelling some speech? You got a hard life. I'm trying to catch a serial killer, the FBI is trying to decide if I'm one myself, and-"

Charlie rolled his eyes and took a sip of the horrible green drink Amita had coerced him into trying. "I didn't intend to make it sound like that. What is the FBI...?"

"Reviewing my history of lethal force. I've killed too many people, so it's back to me being a PTSD-riddled time bomb in need of psychiatric supervision that might just betray his country or murder some people." Don had started out lighthearted, but his tone was icy bitter by the end.

"Does it actually have anything to do with your -" Charlie struggled to find the right word, "- past?"

Don shook his head, his expression darkening further at Charlie's discomfort. He leaned back and sighed. "When I was arrested -" he glanced at Charlie. "I got out, you celebrated with me, and we went on with our lives. I got stabbed, everything went upside down for a bit, but I recovered and - I just wonder why I'm not allowed the same with this."

Charlie looked away. "We went through those things with you."

"That's bullshit," said Don.

Charlie snapped. _Clueless. The man's utterly clueless._ He stood up, stood over Don, and looked at him with something resembling fury. He didn't experience anger that often, but when he did it could rival Don's temper in a heartbeat.

"Okay, I'm going to take the gloves off. When those things happened, you weren't tortured. You were not raped, and you were not chained up naked in a basement by a sadistic killer. You didn't come home afterwards and pretend everything was okay and that nothing ever happened to you!"

Don stood, ending up almost nose to nose with Charlie, who refused to back off.

"Charlie, someone stuck a knife in my chest! I _suffocated_ on my own blood. When I went to jail, I was looking at the literal and figurative end of my life. I had to let one of the guys who were supposed to protect me shackle and beat me. You don't think those things were terrifying and painful and humiliating, give 'em a try. While you've known me I've had agents die in front of my eyes, I've had people I care about kidnapped, I - had to shoot my damn mentor!"

Don closed his eyes, and both brothers stood stunned by Don's outburst. Charlie tried to make sense of it, tried fumbling for a reply, then ended up struggling to even know what he should think or feel.

Inches away from Charlie, Don's ragged breathing was easy to hear. His head was turned to the side, away from Charlie, and it took Charlie a few moments to recognize what he was seeing.

The corners of Don's tightly clenched eyes held tears.

"Don?" Charlie realized his voice had come out a whisper.

"When mom died, it hurt me as much as it did you, but I got myself together and went on. That's what I do, don't you get that?" Don sounded furious, but Charlie was mesmerized by his eyes. Sometimes it seemed like his darkest moments were also his most gentle ones, as if he were lashing out in pain to protect the softness within.

"You have people who love you, do you get_ that_?" Charlie whispered, struggling to gain control of his voice and his emotions. Don looked stung by the gentle retort to his harsh words. "Maybe we want to understand, so we can be there for you."

Don walked away, stumbling over a pair of shoes on the floor before he found a chair to sit in. "I don't understand myself, okay? My own brain scares me, sometimes - I'm not sure I trust it."

Charlie stiffened and stopped mid-stride. _My own brain scares me. Yes._

"Ever since it happened, it's like who I am got split in two. There's a part that's a sociopath. I'm a killer, and often a remorseless one, I - I'm capable of violence and of looking at horrors and not even feeling them. That could take me over, easy. It doesn't hurt and it - the other half of my soul feels so much pain and compassion that it makes me too weak to do this job, because I can't bear the harm that comes even with me doing my very best. Sometimes, when I'm with Robin, or you guys, or a case goes well, I'm just a normal, happy guy. I can't just -summon that, you know?"

Don wouldn't look at Charlie, and Charlie was grateful that his brother couldn't see the dizzy mix of understanding and self-absorbs ion that had taken him over. _ I get it. I get it._ The words came out in a blur unstopped by his knowledge of the hijacking of the moment.

"Mine too. My brain frightens me too. Ever since I understood, and the world understood that I was a genius, a math prodigy, there's been a threat of insanity lurking behind every corner. I used to be angry when my teachers would keep looking at me and expecting me to turn into John Nash on them, and when I realized how thin the line is in there between reality and sheer construct I would panic. When I was a kid I got diagnosed with social anxiety, and I didn't know how to understand that I wasn't anxious around people, I was actually frightened of what my mind built out of the blocks of reality and how little they resembled me, or reality -"

"OW!" A shoe had come flying through the air and connected squarely with his nose.

"You aren't crazy, little brother, but you're gonna send me over the edge if you don't stop for breath sometime soon."

Charlie held the shoe, a little dazed. He wasn't sure if they were fighting, sharing a moment of revelation, or just what was happening any more. Don was unpredictable on a good day, and this was anything but.

"Okay, so -" Charlie looked at him narrowly. "Doesn't trauma usually make people shut down inside? My understanding is that aside from specific triggers which might engender an exaggerated reaction, you are more likely to emotionally barricade yourself from the world and from other people to protect yourself from pain than you are to develop an enhanced sense of empathy with others like yourself."

Don obviously couldn't decide whether to smile or be indignant. "You know, I do have a fair amount of training in this stuff. Don't think that reading a textbook entitles you to know what's happening in my head, okay?"

Charlie looked at him with hesitation, angled sideways away from Don, finally giving voice to what he really needed to know. "So what - is - going on in there?"

Don didn't know how to answer, and finally went with something rare and uncomfortable. Honesty not pre-screened for advisability before it was allowed to exit.

"I'm not sure I know. I - take antidepressants, and I think they make me feel just - normal. Without them, yeah, I go a bit dead and a lot angry. I feel like I think logically and react to things like the guy I would be-" he drew in a deep breath and braced himself.

"Nothing scares me more than the idea of being that afraid again. I don't remember the actual pain graphically, and violence doesn't frighten me. Fear like that does, and - being alone. Feeling abandoned."

Don was visibly pale, and he unconsciously folded his arms tight across his chest for warmth. Charlie gulped. Witnessing such vulnerability in Don was terrifying. Touching, but also frightening in the way that it would be if solid rock melted away in front of his eyes.

"I needed them so badly, and they didn't come. That - there's just no word for that level of terror."

Don sat, probably without even realizing it, down on the floor. He crossed his legs, planted his elbows on his knees, and buried his face in his hands. His fingers twisted in his dark hair, seeking something to cling to.

"You guys - didn't know I was missing. Mia died in my arms, and as awful as –" his voice shook, and he kept his palms firmly planted over his eyes to hold in the emotion.

The tiny sniff he wasn't able to contain drew Charlie close, silently standing next to Don, afraid to breathe. "She had someone - at the end. I..."

He couldn't continue.

"...was alone?" finished Charlie, almost whispering.

Don closed his eyes, for the first time in years able to surrender to the memory of those few emotions that held the power to break him. _Help. Save me. I need you right now, why aren't you here? _

Don nodded, and something shifted deep below the atmosphere of the room.

Charlie stood motionless, feeling uncomfortable standing over his indomitable, always-in-charge idol. He didn't know whether to sit beside him, stand there and put a hand on his shoulder, or give into the tears he was fighting off so desperately.

Instinct was telling him to stay frozen where he was, and even though it felt wrong, he obeyed. A few moments later he understood, and it brought a lump to his throat of an entirely different kind.

Right now, he was the protector.

Right now, his place was to stay in control and stand guard over this person who had, possibly for the first time in his life, placed himself in a position of utter vulnerability and was trusting Charlie to protect him.

It was one of those quiet moments in which an entire life, or outlook on life, can change. Charlie felt any inclination to cry vanish as his senses sharpened, his awareness expanding from the tiny bubble surrounding him and Don.

It encompassed every creak of the wooden staircase, the scent of basil lingering in its journey from the kitchen, the distance between the two of them and every door and window, even the intensity and quality of the light filtering through those openings. The light was hazy and yellow, and under the scent of the fragrant basil was that of smoke.

For an instant, Charlie's heartbeat spiked. Fire. The wildfires were dominating the news, overshadowing even the reporting of LA's newest serial killer. Charlie calculated the fastest way to get himself and his brother out of the house and which escape route to take on the roads. Then the mathematical side of his brain spat out the certainty that even the most violent wildfire would not have had sufficient time to reach their Pasadena home.

Slowly, Don nodded again, an affirmative answer to Charlie's question. His shoulders were shaking, and it took all of Charlie's self-control not to kneel down and hug him. Oddly, it was not any emotion or sense of the appropriate which stopped Charlie, but the refusal to place himself in a vulnerable position while Don was down.

From the earliest moments of Charlie's existence, Don had been a force of strength to which Charlie could never aspire. If his father and mother had been the gods of his young world, Don had been the mythical white knight.

It seemed there was no force and no obstacle Don could not overcome, and indeed this had been borne out more deeply than Charlie had ever known. That fierce, irrepressible side of Don had survived torture and rape and rescued himself. It had come home seemingly untouched and stood unflinching in the face of a level of violence that was unthinkable to most people.

It had not once in Charlie's life occurred to him that Don could need protecting, and even more distant had been the possibility that he would actually _want _anyone to protect him.

Don's voice startled him, but it was soft and utterly vulnerable. "When - it goes on for days, and the things that might help you deal with it are gone - I felt like I would rather shoot myself in the head than risk feeling that fear again. I thought about quitting. Idea of handing over the tools the FBI gave me to at least have a fighting chance was - intolerable."

"Thinking about other people I might save who were going through that - I stayed, and I unleashed all that fear and anger on the agents who were screwing up, making dumb mistakes, trying to do things they weren't trained for."

A car door slammed outside, and Don didn't seem to notice. Charlie's whole body tensed, every nerve on high alert until he identified it as their next-door neighbor's return home by the excited yelping and whining of the family's golden retriever.

"You know, we humans, we can cope with a lot. I made myself okay with the whole lone wolf thing, I really did. I was kinda proud of being the guy who rescued himself from a serial killer and went back on the job a month later."

"When did you stop being okay?" asked Charlie.

"I dunno - whenever I really thought about being afraid, I guess. Not really sure."

He shifted and raised his head, his voice regaining some of its normal calm strength. "One night Billy and I found a fugitive. We got split up, and the guy got the drop on me for a second. I - didn't lose it completely but I took that guy down hard, I made some horrible threats, and I terrified him. There's this double murderer, handcuffed, my knee on his back, and he's looking up at me with absolute terror and - it just tore me up. I knew that fear and couldn't handle that I'd done that to - anyone. They transferred me to Quantico the next week."

Don fought with himself, and came up with a better memory, one that made him smile.

Getting stabbed.

"When I woke up in the hospital after I was stabbed, there were these awful few seconds where I thought I was back in that basement, coming to after passing out. When I realized all of you were there around me, I was just so - happy. Looking at you guys...Dad thought I was being brave, smiling, but I was truly happy, you know? Like more content than I'd felt since it happened."

Charlie smiled too, a faint, pale smile that deepened as he remembered. "I thought it was the drugs," he admitted.

Don shook his head, true warmth in his stressed gaze. "It was joy. Relief like you can't imagine, I don't even know how to say."

Charlie shivered from deep within, chilled as realization and emotion sunk in. "You'd finally been rescued. All those years later - you had to wait for what should have happened back then."

Don was okay now, his gaze steady. Charlie wasn't, and he fell to his knees in front of Don, knowing what he wanted to convey, but not how.

"We love you," he floundered. "We love you, and - we're always, always going to have your back. There's never going to be another basement, but no matter what happens we will care and we will fight for you with everything we've got, and we won't ever give up or stop caring about you or being with you. And we won't screw it up."

"I know, buddy," said Don softly. "I know. In jail - God that was hard."

Charlie gulped. "You were in solitary."

"It was more than just that. I was helpless and there I was with the worst kind of precedent with relying on other people to save me."

It was Don's turn to gulp. "It was - putting my whole soul on the line to maintain some sort of faith through that. I think if I'd gone to prison - that would have been the end of me. It wasn't. Everyone was fighting for me, and I realized I had this wonderful team of people who - were going to save me. Maybe I spent my whole career building that just in case, you know? Even - I swear to God Kevin Anderson must have talked to his men and said - look, we're going to protect this guy and we're going to keep him sane. You guys - you and Dad and Amita made me feel so loved."

Charlie broke, diving head-first into Don's arms and hugging him with a schizophrenic blend of love and grief, joy and hysteria.

What Don had described was what he thought he was alone in feeling; that desperate need for the reassurance that was solely responsible for his own ability to cope with the FBI work, maybe even life. The reassurance that he was loved and cared for and backed by a family and an utterly expert team that if need be, would fight with him and for him with everything they had.

Don had lost that, and was somehow finding it again.


End file.
